The Rogue of Pern
by The ACS Dude
Summary: The 16th Turn of the last pass has come around, and Benden Weyr is performing a Search in a small gathering point not even a hold. There they discover a man who will rewrite the rules.
1. Prologue

/ **Author's Comments:**

Before I start the story, I've got a little bit to say. The first and most familiar of my "comments" is the disclaimer. I do not own the idea or have rights to the world of Pern and its associated novels. They are the intellectual property of Anne McCaffery and/or associated publishers/authors.

Next, a little that you, as the reader, should know. I've only read a small number of the novels McCaffery has written about Pern. More exactly, I have read Dragonflight, Dragonquest, The White Dragon, and all of the short stories in "A Gift of Dragons" ("The Smallest Dragonboy", "The Girl Who Heard Dragons", "Runner of Pern, and "Ever the Twain"). I've starting reading "The Renegades of Pern", but I'm not very far. I'm drawing almost all of knowledge of Pern from these. I know that quite a bit happens in the following novels, include the discovery of an AI left over from the colonists, but I've no idea what happens otherwise in these books.

I have also only figured out what to do with the first few chapters of the fiction. I've got the main characters and their personalities well mapped out, but I haven't got a plot to cover the entirety of the story. If you, as the reviewer would care to make suggestions, they would be much appreciated.

I am unreliable and will update sporadically at best.

**Chapter Information:**

Drafting Began: 2:50:31 AM (GMT), July 6, 2006

Drafting Ended: 2:21:40 AM (GMT), July 8, 2006

Uploaded: 4:36:45 AM (GMT), July 8, 2006/

The Rogue of Pern

Prologue

Salt's Clearing, Northwest of Bitra Hold

Present Pass, 16.1.14

D'sen felt the familiar, but nonetheless intense cold of _between_ as he and B'fol proceeded to one of their last stops on the Search. His wing had already visited Bitra Hold and found eight candidates (the Lord Holder had been pleasantly surprised by the number, but Ramoth had lain a clutch of 46). The wing had then dissolved into smaller groups (as was standard) and had begun to search the surrounding smaller holdings. Now, he and B'fol were on the last legs of their journey. They had passed beyond the actual lands that qualified as the holding of any Lord Holder or Holder, and now made for a small settlement (gathering place, rather) in the mountains north of Bitra (and north Benden, for that matter). They had started incorporating this small settlement (in reality, it was not a settlement, but a gathering point; there were few permanent structures and no protection from thread), far too small to be called a hold, during a search two turns ago, when they had discovered a candidate – a trapper's son by the name of Denat. He had Impressed a blue and become D'nat. Although prospects of actually finding another worthy candidate here were slim, Benden had to give the hatchlings as wide a range as possible to choose from (46 eggs was one of the largest clutches on the record).

D'sen, lost in his own thoughts, had hardly noticed when he had emerged from _between_. The early months in the north were almost as cold! Still, he was jolted back to reality when Sayth, his blue, started to descend. The spiraling path downward offered a grand view of the plains surrounding them. The snow-capped mountains to the north were certainly majestic, and the forest encircling the clearing gave the impression that the land was almost untouched by the people who lived there. As D'sen looked down on it from adragonback, he realized that this clearing would be a beautiful place to live, but pretty scenery did little to outweigh the remoteness of the location and danger from mountain beasts and threadfall. As Sayth hit the ground, D'sen decided to retract his mental statement about the potential candidates; it took a certain kind of person to live on the frontier, and many of those people would have made good dragonriders. Their children would hopefully retain many of their parents' best traits.

D'sen dismounted and was almost shocked to see B'fol and his green already next to him. He must resolve to stay more alert! _He emerged from between just before we did._ Sayth informed him. D'sen mentally cursed himself for his lapse, but then recovered and started to look around. It was a very small clearing, more of scattered mass of buildings than a settlement, but on the list of destinations to Search nonetheless. A number of residents had now paused to look at the two dragonriders, children among them, but none approached them. "Who do you think we should talk to?" B'fol hissed in his ear. "I don't think this village has a Lord Holder, B'fol." D'sen muttered back. Normally, when dragonriders Searched, the Lord Holder emerged to greet them, and the Lord Holder called for the children to assemble. However, with no Lord Holder, B'fol was understandably confused.

"What is the name of this settlement? I have forgotten."

"Salt's Clearing, D'sen."

"Ah, yes. How could I have forgotten? My apologies, B'fol."

"There's no shame in forgetting minor, details. But what should we do?"

"We just speak to the populace in general, B'fol. We landed in the town square. Watch."

D'sen turned away from the other rider, and looked around him and addressed the crowd at large."We come on Search for Benden Wyer!" he announced. "I am D'sen, rider of the blue Sayth, and my compatriot is B'fol, rider of the green Gereth."The effects of his words were instantaneous. The eyes of every youngster in the crowd grew wide. Hopeful children and parents alike began to express their hopes to their friends, most dreaming of the glamorous life of a dragonrider over that of a hunter or trapper. The crowd grew, the chatter became louder, and D'sen looked around the crowd. He realized that if the was the entire village, there were scarcely a thousand people, perhaps one hundred of their number children.

After a few moments of waiting for the noise to die down, which it didn't, D'sen held up his hands for quiet. The chatter died away. "We are only looking for teenagers of the age of twelve turns or older. If all of the children between the ages of twelve and seventeen would come forth..." Several of the younger children dejected began to sulk back to their parents. B'fol chuckled. "Don't worry! We'll be back in a few turns when you're older." None of them seemed to cheer up at this however, and a number of moans. D'sen even heard one child complain, "I'm never old enough for anything. I'll show 'em all one day..." B'fol glanced at D'sen, grinning.

The children of Salt's Clearing slowly began making their way to the front of the crowd, and the adults, however anxious, stepped back. Sayth and Gereth approached the waiting cluster of young men and women and carefully perused each in turn. As they inspected the teenagers, D'sen looked at the waiting adults with interest. It was so rare that a dragonrider got to leave the weyr and actually get a good look at outside life that he was fascinated. There were the anxious parents, indifferent but excited onlookers, hunters, trappers, traders, herdsmen... the list went on. Pioneers each of them, and it took bravery and spirit to be out here on the frontier. They were holdless in name only – holdless but not honorless.

A few minutes slipped by, as Sayth and Gereth continued the Search, D'sen amused himself watching the surrounding crowd of adults. As the two dragons proceeded down the line, someone let out a muffled shriek. D'sen whirled to see who had made the sound, and found the source in a nervous mother eating her own knuckles with anxiety. He suppressed a grin, remembering his own mother during the Search he had been picked from, and was about to turn away, when something – or rather someone – drew his gaze. A young man was standing behind the crowd, in the shadow of a building, one booted foot against the wall. Had it not been for his keen eyesight, D'sen might have missed the boy entirely, especially because he was clad in the leather armor of an adult hunter. He was tall, taller than D'sen, from the looks of him, heavy set, and dark. A lock of black hair partially obscured the left side of his face, but D'sen could see that he was undeniably a older teenager. Why hadn't he joined the others? Why was he hiding – well, not quite hiding –, but why had he separated himself from the rest of the teenagers, staying back and cloaking himself in shadows and the clothes of an adult?

As if sensing his questioning gaze, the young man raised his head and met the gaze of the dragonrider, his expression totally blank, yet at the same time hard. D'sen returned the boy's stare for a few moments, before returning his gaze to the two searching dragons. Sayth and Gereth were craning their heads and were focused on one boy, young, tall, dark, and strong, twelve or thirteen turns old. D'sen got the sense that Sayth had a good feeling about this one.

"Have you found one, Sayth?" D'sen asked mentally.

_ I believe we have, _responded the blue. Acknowledging the new candidate, D'sen nodded to B'fol and approached the young boy. The two dragons retracted their tremendous heads, allowing D'sen to talk to the boy. "Hello, son," said D'sen. "What's your name?"

"Gyron, sir" replied the boy, smiling with the thought of what he knew would come next.

"The dragons have chosen you, Gyron." There was immediate chatter among the young men there assembled, and D'sen caught whiffs of conversation. "Him? Why he's not even..." "That runt! He's not fit to be a dragonman!" "...I'm two heads taller than he is..." D'sen stepped back and took a good look at the boy. He was not yet five feet tall, overdue for a growth spurt, more plain than handsome, plain-faced, strong, and now positively beaming. B'fol helped D'sen to lead the boy out of the crowd, the children still chattering behind him. Now that he had been lead away from the others, he looked distressed.

"If I may ask, sirs, why me? There are plenty of boys faster, smarter, and taller than me. Why me?"

D'sen smiled. His question might be a sign of humility, which might be the answer to the question itself. "The dragons always know, Gyron. You've got virtues about you that the dragons can see."

Gyron's face broke out into another smile. "I understand, sir. Thank you."

"Oh, don't thank me, son." replied D'sen. "Its you who has what it takes. Now, it's tradition that I speak with you parents. Where is...?"

Gyron pointed to the women who D'sen immediately recognized as the nervous women who had shrieked with anxiety. "That's my mother," commented Gyron. "My father is out of town."

D'sen approached the women, a friendly smile on his face.

"Are you Gyron's mother, Ma'am?"

"Indeed I am. Oh!" she gasped. "Have they really chosen him! He's always wanted to be dragonman, but I never thought..."

"Yes, Ma'am. The dragons have indeed made their choice. Now, it _is_ customary to ask permission from at least one parent..."

"Oh course he can go! Oh! I can't believe it! My Gyron – a dragonman! Oh my!" D'sen turned to Gyron past his mother's exclamations. "Now, pack whatever you need."

Gyron's dazed mother started lead him away, but Gyron's face fell once again and he turned to the two dragonriders.

"Lord D'sen," he started respectfully, "Will I be allowed to see my friends and family again?"

D'sen kneeled and clasped one hand on the boys shoulder, looking him straight in the eye. "Gyron, when you are a dragonrider, you'll be able to go wherever you want whenever you want. You can see you friends anytime. And your family too. Not to mention that your family will probably there at hatching."

At the mention of hatching, a smile broke out on Gyron's face again. As he walked away mother, D'sen heard him say, "Do you really think I'll Impress? Do you think I'll get a dragon?" D'sen shot a grin at B'fol. _I'd be surprised if he doesn't,_ Sayth informed him. B'fol, as if he had heard the same thing, grinned and nodded. "We should Search the remaining youngsters," D'sen told Sayth. The dragons sent him a mental nodd, and returned to their task. D'sen as he returned to the lines of youngsters, he shot a quick glance over his shoulder, and his smile faded. The dark, elder youth was still standing in the shadow of the building, in exactly the same stance, with exactly the same expression on his face. D'sen turned back to the hopeful teens, and tried to regain his complexion. There was something about that man that shook him to the bones. Even though he had never even heard the teen speak, never seen him even move, there was something about him... _He has great potential_, remarked Sayth. D'sen acknowledged Sayth, but said nothing.

A few more minutes passed by, the anxious children squirming beneath the scrutiny of the two dragons, towering majestically so far over their heads. However, for all their desperate hopes, for all of their overbearing pride, and for all of their naïve overconfidence, Sayth and Gereth chose no other from among the candidates for candidate-hood. Not a one better than little Gyron. Although he showed nothing externally, D'sen smiled internally, but faltered for a moment. How many dreams ruined today? How many? _I understand your feelings. But none of these men, however much as they want it, have a good chance of Impressing._ D'sen once again reluctantly acknowledged Sayth's mental statement.

"What of that one?" D'sen mentally directed Sayth to the dark youth, still standing in the shadow of the same building, one boot against the wall, despite the dispersing crowd. The youth was still staring, unblinking, straight at D'sen. _He has potential, I can tell. Do you think we should take a closer look?_ "Indeed. Tell Gereth to tell B'fol."

As one, the two dragonriders and their cherished companions made their way through the remnants of chattering crowd. Why, D'sen wondered as they approached the boy, Is he standing in just that way? Is it coincidence? Is he trying to be melodramatic? A little of both? D'sen's feeling about the boy hadn't faded.

As the two riders drew closer, the youth removed his foot from wall. He looked over D'sen and B'fol, D'sen realized, as if he was sizing them up. D'sen got a better look at him. He had black hair – or very dark brown –, well cropped, his eyes were brown, and he was tanned, although there wasn't much sun this far north. He was indeed dressed as a hunter, with two apparent belt knives (although one was undoubtedly for skinning, not combat), and a bow and quiver hanging on his back. There was a pack on the ground behind him, resting against the building, although it might not have been his. His gloves and boots were wehrhide, he had no cloak, and he did indeed have the thick leather armor of a hunter – a hunter of dangerous game. D'sen and B'fol drew to a stop in front of him, their dragons close behind. The boy's eyes flicked from D'sen's face to B'fol's face, and then back to D'sen. Then, to D'sen's suprise, he bowed low to the pair. "Good morning, Master D'sen – rider of the blue Sayth – and Master B'fol – who rides the green Gereth. How may I be of service?" His voice was deep and strong.

D'sen let a smile show on face. He mentally signalled to Sayth – who told Gereth – that they could take a look at him. "You have a good memory, son. What is your name?" The youth shot a glance at the two dragons, towering above him, now craning their heads to see him. Then his solid gaze was back on D'sen, looking the rider straight in the eye. "Unfortunately, Master D'sen, that is the first of – so I predict – several requests that I will not fulfill." D'sen frowned and shot a quizzical look at B'fol, who shrugged. _B'fol has told Gereth to tell me to tell you that he doesn't know what to do either. And that perhaps the boy knows he will be Searched, but does not want to come._ "Have you come to decision about him?" D'sen asked mentally. _Gereth and I are definitely agreed: He has great potential._ D'sen poked the youth with his nose. The teen gave the dragon a fierce glare. _I think I can _hear _him, but I don't think he wants me too. In any event, we should take him._ D'sen looked again at B'fol, and B'fol nodded, having heard from Gereth what D'sen himself had heard from Sayth.

"How old are you, son?" D'sen asked reasonably.

"Sixteen turns next month."

"And where are your parents?"

"They're dead," he replied, his voice not quavering.

"Oh. My apologies."

"No offense was taken, dragonrider."

Members of the crowd stopped walking away, and turned, interested in this new pick of the riders. They were clustering around the three men and two dragons. D'sen knew what they wondered. Were they merely making sure every teen was adequately inspected? Or did they mean to make a dragonman of this youth? D'sen knew, of course, the answer as well.

"Well, young man, the dragons have picked you. Gather your things. We'll be leaving soon."

He raised an eyebrow. "And if I refuse?" There was a startled intake of breath from all around him. D'sen stared at the teen, and then turned to B'fol, shocked. B'fol stared back at him, as confused as D'sen. D'sen turned back to the youth. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, Master Dragonrider, that I have no desire to be a dragonrider. Quite the contrary, in fact – I'd much rather stay here."

"You don't want a dragon?" asked D'sen in disbelief. There were few boys on Pern who hadn't had that very daydream.

The youth's face broke into a smile. "No, Master D'sen, I'm afraid not. I'll have to turn down your offer to become a candidate. However, there are any number of young men and women here who have considerably more ambition than I do, and would love nothing better than to have a dragon beside them. Why don't you give my candidacy to one of them?"

"That's not the way it works. The dragons have picked you, not one of them. Why would you want to stay here?"

"Once again, I will tell you that, Master Dragonrider. In any event, if you refuse to not try to wrong me, I will not come with you."

D'sen glanced at B'fol again, who seemed as just ask shocked as he himself was. It was absolute tradition – set in stone – that those lads and ladys who were picked on Search became candidates, no matter who they were, be they Holder's women or sons, whatever the objections of their family – asking parental permission was merely formality – and whatever their personal preference. All, if they had objected originally, became thankful and repentant if and when they Impressed.

"Well, you have to come with us, lad. You don't really have a choice. And you have to tell us your name, while you're at it."

The lad shook his head. "I will not. You will consider nothing else?"

D'sen glanced at B'fol who shook his head. "No. We will not."

The youth sighed and looked at the noonday sky. Then he looked at the ground, his head shaking from side to side. "It shouldn't have come to this," he said. In one fluent motion, almost too fast to see, one of his belt knives was in his right hand. "If you wish to drag me away, then you'll have fight for me! Dragonrider D'sen, rider of the blue Sayth, of Benden Wyer, I challenge you to a duel!"

The crowd erupted into chatter and yells all around the three men. D'sen couldn't even begin to imagine what compelled this boy to challenge a dragonrider. Bravado? Belligerence? Did he merely want to test his mettle again a dragonman? No, then he wouldn't have offered such reasonable alternatives. Whatever the motivation, he grounds to challenge D'sen. And D'sen, for the honor of Benden Wyer, would have to accept the challenge. There were just a few things that bothered him.

1) The youth had both height and reach advantage over him, not to mention strength.

2) His opponent was using a combat knife – several inches longer than D'sen's own belt knife.

3) Dragonriders rarely dueled using knives. Disputes among riders were settled in strictly regulated unarmed bouts.

4) His opponent, being a hunter (or D'sen assumed), had probably used his combat knife a great deal.

D'sen glanced at B'fol again, who stared helplessly back. D'sen had to accept the duel. "Very well. Steel yourself! I accept your challenge!" D'sen drew his own belt knife, painfully reminded all of the times that he had neglected to service and sharpen it, never thinking that he might use it for a duel.

The crowd began to back up, giving the duelists room to manuever. Sayth and Gereth lept into the air. B'fol gave D'sen an encouraging pat on the shoulder and backed up. The young man standing opposite D'sen calmly slid his quiver and bow off of his back and carefully set them on the ground. Then, he drew his second belt knife – which D'sen knew to be a skinning knife – and dropped it onto the rocky ground. D'sen silently wished that he felt as calm as the youth looked.

The youth, shaking his head, gave D'sen one last look in the eyes – mournful but resolved – before he sunk into a fighting stance. How had it come to this?

The two began to circle each other. The duel was on. They slowly spiraled closer and closer to each other. D'sen remembered his training. Never be tempted to strike at the extremities. Aim for the center of mass, where it's harder to dodge. Aim for the chest. With the other just withing his striking range, D'sen lashed out with his dagger.

Almost as soon as he started the strike, he knew it was a mistake. The youth caught his hand, pulled himself inward, and expertly slashed through D'sen's riding tunic. D'sen gritted his teeth and wrenched his arm free, to counter-strike... But it was too late. His opponent had pulled away. The youth knew how to fight. D'sen couldn't afford to be so reckless again.

The wound was shallow – barely a flesh wound – but Shells it hurt! Concentrating on the pain, D'sen barely had time to jump out the way of the youth's next strike, a downward slash at his chest. Was this boy aiming to kill?

D'sen took advantage of his open stance following his strike to lash out at his breastbone. The boy ducked. Shells! He had been expecting it. But D'sen felt his knife cut something, and saw it rake across the boy's cheek. But it was a scratch! Barely a cut at all! Barely even bleeding! As he cursed himself silently, D'sen saw the flash of a knife in front of his face. There was pain, and D'sen staggered.

The youth's counter stroke was much more decisive than D'sen's. He had brought the butt, not the blade (as D'sen had feared), of his dagger up and struck D'sen across the forehead with it. The blunt trauma disoriented the rider, and he reeled backwards. However, D'sen knew the battle was over when he felt his feet kicked out from under him. His opponent had tripped him successfully, and D'sen hit the ground, his head spinning. He tried bring his knife up to defend, but one booted foot came down on his hand. He dropped the knife. D'sen cried out in pain, his hand frantically clutching on nothingness, and desperately tried to pull his arm free.

Suddenly, D'sen felt a blow to his back, followed by another to his head. His head flopped to the ground. D'sen knew that he was spent. His vision was swimming, although he seemed to be looking straight into dirt. He could hear the blood pulsing in his ears. He wasn't unconscious, but he was too tired to continue the fight. He faintly heard a dragon's roar, as though from afar. D'sen suddenly realized he couldn't hear the crowd. There was a metallic taste in his mouth, and he felt something warm trickling down his lips.

D'sen stayed on his back, trying to ignore the pain. He couldn't hear himself breathing, although he knew was doing so. How fast the youth had disabled him! By the First Shell! He propped himself up on one arm. The crowd was cheering, but he couldn't hear them. No one was paying him any attention. B'fol was shouting something to the youth that D'sen that he couldn't hear. The youth roared back, but the battlecry was seemed like a whipser to D'sen. The two charged at each other and locked knives. The youth sidestepped and hurled himself into B'fol and pinned him to the wall of a nearby building. B'fol, his knife-hand still free, slashed at his opponent's arm, but the cut he managed to make was only skin-deep. The youth twisted B'fol's wrist, and B'fol dropped the knife.

Suddenly, as if someone had turned his hearing back on, sound came flooding back to D'sen. He could hear the incredible noise of the crowd, and B'fol's shriek of pain. The sickening thud as the youth headbutted B'fol. And as he headbutted the rider again. And again. And again. The youth brought up his knife, and hit the dragonman twice with the handle. He released B'fol. The noise of the crowd was enormous! B'fol sunk to the ground, apparently unconscious. Sayth and Gereth roared deafeningly from a mere dragonlength above their heads.

Shells! D'sen twisted around. He frantically contacted Sayth. "Contact the rest of the wing! Tell them what has happened!" Sayth's merely acknowledged him, understanding the urgency of the situation. The youth was now turning from his fallen opponent, his weapon raised in triumph. D'sen turned his head. Something was gleaming in the rocky dirt. His knife! He had no chance... But by the First Shell, he had to try! For Benden! D'sen reached, trying to grasp the weapon. His fingers curled around the handle as the crowd went ominously silent. As he grasped it, he heard the crunching of dirt against boots. D'sen looked up. The youth was standing there, and D'sen, with a start, suddenly recognized the expression on his face.

A booted foot came into contact with D'sen's skull, and darkness began to cloud the rider's vision. As he slipped into merciful unconsciousness, he pondered what it was that he had seen. He had guessed at the man's motive (one had beaten two dragonriders was no boy in D'sen's mind). What he had seen was not mere belligerence, not superiority, but a touch of remorse mixed with raw unbridled hatred. His last thought before the void engulfed him entirely was one of regret. He, D'sen, could have prevented the events that had transpired here today. It was his fault that he had stirred this boy's rage. Stirred it and cultivated it. Then all he knew was blackness.

/ So that's the prologue. This is my first fic that I've published on for a while, so I'd really appreciate reviews. Also, please remember, I'm open to plot ideas! This obviously takes place during the 16th turn (of the last pass), about a turn or so before the discovery of AIVAS.

Until next time, The ACS Dude /


	2. Chapter 1: Halen

/ **Author's Comments:**

First, a note. Although I used a different format in the previous chapter, I'm now going to use italics for **all** telepathic communication, not just the dragons'. Next, I'd like to present a point of clarification: In the tradition of the Weyrs, the Searched actually have no choice whether to come to the Weyr. If that tradition will continue into this new liberal period during the last pass remains to be seen.

Next, I would remind everyone that the last pass is the same as the ninth.

I have now read Dragonsdawn, Renegades of Pern, and All the Weyrs of Pern, and am drawing information for the fiction from them as well.

I'm still wondering what the few readers I have gained think of this fic, and I'm continuing to ask to for suggestions and constructive criticism. (Many thanks in advance!)

I still don't have a schedule, but am writing whenever I feel compelled to. I will, once again, only update sporadically.

**Chapter Information:**

Drafting Began: 10:53:20 PM (GMT), July 14, 2006

Drafting Ended: 7:45:07 PM (GMT), July 16, 2006

Uploaded:

The Rogue of Pern

Chapter 1: Halen

Salt's Clearing, Northwest of Bitra Hold

Present Pass, 16.1.14

The noise of the crowd was deafening, be the shouts of triumph, suprise, support, or contempt. Halen gave the downed dragonrider – D'sen, rider of the blue Sayth – a second short, sharp kick to the skull to make sure he would stay down this time. D'sen did not stir. Shells, he could hardly hear himself think over this noise! Halen ran one calloused hand – hardened by turns of burns from smithing and tanning – over his forehead, wiping the sweat off. He couldn't think of a single person he knew who wasn't here right now! The mass that had come to see his impromptu fight was the largest he had ever seen!

Sayth bellowed with rage, and Halen snapped back from his thoughts and musing in victory to the present. The hunter barely had time to duck and roll as the infuriated dragon strafed the clearing. As the flurry of blue passed overhead, Halen considered the seriousness of the situation. There were two mature dragons – D'sen's Sayth and B'fol's Gereth – who were none too happy about what Halen had done to their riders. They had no doubt summoned the rest of their wing. He had to get out of here. Now or never.

Halen felt the adrenaline pumping as Gereth strafed. The hunter dashed through the crowd, their voices all but drowned out by the howling dragons, now hovering not three dragonlengths above the clearing. The populace of Salt's Clearing parted before him, shouting unintelligible sentence fragments at him. Halen reached the shade of the tavern he had been leaning against, and scrambled on the ground to collect his belongings. Knife? Bow? Quiver? Yes, yes and yes. Where was his pack?

Sayth strafed again, his shrieking drowning out all other sound. The people, seemingly insignificant compared to the blue, yelled soundlessly and scattered before the dragon. Where was that pack? Shells! Not now! There it was, to the left. Up and over the shoulder. All right, ready to go. Just one more thing to take care of.

Halen held his hands for silence, and somehow, he made his voice heard above the racket. "People of Salt's Clearing! Hear me speak! Please! These dragonmen have wronged me personally, but have done us as a whole no harm!" As if to contradict his point, Sayth strafed the clearing again, and Halen barely dodged his claws. The dragons meant to take him. They wouldn't get him. "Please! I must go, but help these men! Let us show the men of Benden of Weyr that holdless men are not also honorless!"There was general consent from the crowd, and men moved to help D'sen and B'fol. Just as Halen began to break through the crowd towards the forest to the southwest.

He had to flee before the rest of D'sen's wing arrived. That could take several minutes, as they mounted up, explained that they to go, and went between. As Halen ran for his freedom, he heard more howls from the dragons. The youth kept his head low, expecting to hear a flurry of wings and claws on his body at any moment... But nothing happened. The roars of fury became slightly softer. Halen chanced a fleeting glance backwards.

The dragons were still circling, their eyes blazing red with anger, but were not advancing on him. Halen realized that as much as they would have liked to snatch him up and give him his just desserts, they were torn between pursuing him and guarding their defeated riders. His eyes slipped from the dragons to the riders. Each slumped on the ground. Unconscious. Beaten.

Neither was badly wounded. The men of Salt's Clearing were swarming to help them, after Halen had used his brief moment as a leader to help the men he had defeated. Yes, Halen hated the Weyrs and dragons and dragonmen. But there was reason that his actions should prejudice Benden against the holdless people of the snowy north. This was his fight, and there was no reason for others to suffer for his independent actions.

Halen decided to take full advantage of the dragons' momentary indecision and bolted southeast. He knew that there was a small tunnel that he could take refuge in only a minute's run from the clearing. Quite plainly, he had to get there before they opted to chase him.

The dragons were enraged, and Halen knew rage. He could see the fury in their eyes – so much anger... They'd follow him to the ends of Pern if he didn't escape. That was a relentless, unyielding, all-consuming anger. Halen had heard that the rider and the dragon were like two halves to a whole. The rider provided rationality, and the dragon provided instinct – each of which were necessary to ride thread. If he wasn't quite mistaken, Halen was under the impression that he had removed the rationality.

He ran for his life.

If was a Pass, and the number of holdless, as always, expanded to record sizes. While the Red Star, the dreaded harbinger of the all-devouring Thread, was in the sky, The Lord Holders allowed only the best and brightest into their holds; lesser men were cast out and forced to seek refuge wherever they could. Such a man was Halen's father, a hunter and trapper born holdless – as most hunters were. When the pass started – a turn before Halen's birth – pleas for shelter fell on deaf ears. It was every man for himself during a pass. Unproductive or unloyal people were forced out into the open during falls.

There was no hunter's crafthall. Hunters and trappers were never considered productive. Only the occasional game warden or expert hunters (to advise the less experienced during sport hunts) were required, and this was a minuscule percentage of the overall supply. Most hunters, therefore, were forced out, not only having to forage for themselves – as they had always done – but also avoiding the deadly Thread. Many died.

Halen's father and his pregnant mother, were, therefore, hard pressed when the Pass began. They had previously been working near Bitra, where supplies and goods were readily available, but without proper shelter, the Halen's parents had had to abandon their previous hunting ground. They were then faced with a quandary. Where did they go next? To the west, in Ista Hold, rumor had it that the Lord Holder was offering free shelter for the holdless. There? No, for two reasons. First, the trek was long on foot and (as they had no runner beasts), Halen's mother wouldn't have made it that far. Secondly, although he had never admitted it, Halen knew that his father was an extremely proud man, and would never be beholden to anyone, or live on a Lord Holder's charity.

So his parents trekked north. It was early in the turn, and snow blanketed the region, but small game still littered the area, and, despite the extreme cold, caves riddled the eastern mountains. Halen's father had, while his mother was in the early stages of labor, found a small cave, where they had taken refuge. Halen had been born there, in that small cave, to a holdless family, who had no place to go.

Halen's father decided to stay there. They had crossed over the border into the snowy wastes, beyond the borders of any Hold. Much of the ground was littered with stone and gravel, and not a square inch was arable. The temperature, also, made farming impossible. The eastern mountains were riddled with small caves. There was game enough to support them. There were small creeks and groves of trees which proved quite useful. And, best of all, as the family soon discovered, Thread didn't fall in the early months, instead freezing from the cold and blowing harmlessly away. The Thread that did fall and reach the ground soon starved or froze to death against the stony ground.

A turn slipped by, and Halen's father began meeting other holdless men who run north, the populace as a whole began the realize that the there was a large number of them, scattered all over the rim of the eastern mountains. The denizens of the eastern snowy wastes began to talk, trade, and even start to gather, in a small clearing called Salt's Clearing, so named for reasons that no one could remember. This large clearing in the largest grove of trees that anyone had discovered in the north became a common (and somewhat well known) rallying point for the holdless men of the north. It was midway through the second turn of the pass that someone had suggested building there.

There were nearly two hundred people rallying around clearing, as one man had pointed out. About half were trappers and hunters, but they also had a healthy mix of traders, foresters, and even apprentice and journeyman craftsmen. They had everything they'd need to build here – even if it couldn't be a hold. People could finally start trading goods and services, something that they had been deprived of for more than a turn.

No one remembered who had had the suggestion, but everyone agreed that it was a good one. A small settlement, not quite a hold (as it provided little protection from Thread), was built in Salt's Clearing. Almost every good that would be available in a minor hold was available in the clearing. More skilled, holdless men heard about the Clearing, and droves of holdless flocked to the snowy wastes. Salt's Clearing became a settlement in earnest. And so Halen's home was built.

Unfortunately, as much of a blessing as that turn was for the holdless, the news was not all good. The cold of the north during the early months chilled to the bone, and not everyone could manage. Halen's mother, having become separated from Halen's father during a hunt, became lost and died of exposure. (Halen was fortunately with is father.) Halen could never remember his mother, and his father almost never spoke of her, so Halen knew little about her, save the cause of her death.

Turns passed, and Halen grew into a strong youth. He was tall and dark, just like his father. For lack of a harper (there were none in the clearing) to teach the youths the Teaching Ballads, Halen learned a little bit of everything: he went hunting with his father and learned small snippets of every craft that it took to be a hunter. Aside from hunting skills themselves, skinning, tanning, and healing were essential parts of any expedition. Trading, cooking, woodworking, and even smithing were useful for a hunter when he wasn't out tracking some dangerous mountain beast.

Halen did learn to read, as well as a few of the Teaching Ballads, because a few of the less skilled denizens of Salt's Clearing had taken it upon themselves to teach for the odd marks they needed to survive. However, he didn't learn from a proper harper. This didn't bother either him or his father. However, when Halen reached eleven turns and had learned everything he need to know: how to make spears, hunt and trap game, service his weapons and clothes, how to read, how to start a fight, and how to finish it, Halen's father had decided to show him the rest of the world. The pair procured a ride with one of Halen's father's friends on one of the infrequent trade caravan, and, in less than a month, they had reached Bitra Hold: his father's old territory.

They slipped in with the traders, and stayed for a full turn in Bitra, and Halen had mixed feelings about it. The people in Bitra were industrious, as all had to be during a pass, but they were none too happy about it. Men gambled and swindled and panhandled, much as the very lowest rung of society might, but Halen and his father (upon identifying themselves as holdless) were treated no better than vermin. Prices for the holdless seemed to magically double, men looked at them as if they were criminals, and everyone seemed to scorn the pair.

Halen couldn't understand it. These men were by far the worst he had ever seen, yet, just because he was holdless, he was worse! What kind of justice was this? Shells! He worked for his days' food and shelter, and that was more than most could say here. These men weren't worthy eat his scraps, yet they treated him no better than a beast! His father explained that these were the people of Bitra, shrewd traders and compulsive gamblers, even the best of them. The rest of the world was not as blinded by their own stupidity, and most were not as bad as the Bitrans. However, this should teach Halen that even though he was holdless, he had more honor than most. Though society would still blindly shun him, he had honor.

Halen finally understood his father's solemn pride in his work, and began to develop his own healthy hate for society. However, his father warned him about anger and hatred. They were powerful allies, but they could all too easily consume you entirely. If he ever felt too much fury against society, go to Benden Hold. The men there had more honor.

They returned to Salt's Clearing on another trading caravan, and Halen knew much more about the world. He continued learning hunting, and in less than a turn, many would have said that he surpassed his father at it. They might have, were it not for his father's demise, right before Halen reached thirteen turns in age. He had misjudged the strength of a frozen pond and drowned when the ice gave way beneath his feet.

Salt's Clearing was a tight-knit community, and many offered Halen their condolences. Many wanted to offer help, as the poor boy was now an orphan. However, although he was only thirteen turns, he was old and skilled enough to forage for himself. He continued for several months, each day thinking of how, for thirteen turns during the pass, his father had struggled to keep his family alive, and how the people of Bitra had treated them like dirt, even knowing what he and every other holdless family went through. Anger began to swell within Halen, and so he did what his father had told him to do. He secured passage on a trade caravan, and headed to Benden Hold.

In Benden, too, Halen stayed a full turn. The men of Bitra had been industrious, meaning that they had produced quite a bit of material, but it was shoddily made and overpriced. Benden was much fairer, making better goods and possibly the best wine in all of Pern. The men of Benden, unlike the immoral Bitrans, were honorable and prided themselves in their honor, and so Halen gained a renewed respect for society. Respect, yes, but no less anger. The mutual hatred between holders and holdless was much stronger here, as Halen discovered, understandably.

Halen had arrived late in the turn, but earlier, a young girl, by the name of Aramina, had been quartered in Benden Hold by the Weyrs, because she had a gift – she could _hear_ dragons. The bandit, marauder, and self-styled "Lady Holdless" Thella, had, for no reason but revenge, kidnapped the girl.. Aramina, hours after her kidnapping, told the dragons that she was in a small, dark, damp hole with no food or water. After days of searching, Aramina had stopped talking to the dragons, and, although some dragons maintained that she was alive, she was officially declared dead, at Thella's hands. Thella, however, had lost all of her henchmen in the operation, and a bag of marks was put on her head. She hadn't been caught yet.

Thella's actions led to an outburst of against the holdless in Benden. The holdless had no honor! They had killed a talented young women in cold blood for no reason beyond revenge. They marauded, stole, begged, and with no reason or worth to back themselves! These were truly the worst people in the world, these holdless.

Halen (who was passing as a Bitran trader) was as outraged as everyone else at Thella's actions. But the response! The holdless were as honorable as any other people on Pern! Judging them – us really – off of the actions of a few was abominable! It would be like judging all Benden wine off of the one sour skin! Halen seethed whenever he heard talk of those "dastardly outlaws." Halen had once been inside a tavern talking to one of the patrons when the subject of the holdless cropped up. "They're all bad to the core," Halen's half-drunk companion had remarked. "You don't think a one among them is good?" Halen asked in suprise. "Naw," the patron replied. "They's thieves. There's no honor among thieves." No honor among thieves? So the holdless were also honorless, were they? The men of Benden had no right... Shells! He was holdless! But he would have dueled Thella on the spot, if he had been there! If only he had known what she was going to do to that poor girl! By some miracle, he managed to keep his temper, but rage and hatred began to bottle up inside him once again. He only took solace in the fact that they regarded Bitrans as as bad as holdless.

So, after the unpleasantness with Thella, who was no "Lady Holdless" to him or anyone he knew, Benden hated the guts of every holdless man and women and child who had ever lived. Halen knew rage, and perhaps they had reason, but they hadn't reason enough. Halen had gained nothing with regards to his hatred towards society. But there was something else he did gain...

Benden Hold was only a stone's throw from Benden Weyr, and the people in Benden were proud of their protectors. And, given that he was an "uninformed Bitran" they were all too happy to tell everything about Benden. Halen, of course, knew some things about dragons, the colors, how they fought thread, how they Searched, but he started to learn things he had never heard. F'lar was Weyrleader, and Lessa the senior Weyrwoman, although they had several queens. They had enough famous exploits between them to fill a harper's lifetime singing about them. Dragons can not only _between_ places, but _between _times. Lessa had once brought five Weyrs from the past 400 turns forward. Some Lord Holders wanted to mount an expedition to the Red Star, and wipe out Thread once and for all. But didn't F'nor, F'lar's half-brother try that? Oh, that's right. My mistake... It went on and on.

Halen once actually met a dragonrider (strong and tall as they said riders were) who had walked into the local tavern, apparently visiting for whatever reason. Halen had gotten a chance to speak to the man, and had asked him about the holdless – not Thella, but just the holdless. The rider's eyes flashed momentarily. "Ah yes, the holdless. Those marauding criminals are a problem... Well, we keep our eyes out for them. If we see them, we'll report them, maybe take care of 'em. We have enough problems without having to worry about vagrants." Halen had once again been hard pressed to keep his temper. They were vagrants, were they? Well, the ideas of the Weyrs seemed consistent with the ideas of society.

Halen had originally felt that Hold, Hall, and Weyr were all one big problematic ball of hate in a clump that he mentally called "society". However, as he started listening and asking more about the Weyrs, he started disliking what he heard more and more. He had never particularly wanted a dragon, but he would have sprung at the opportunity to be Searched. His view was starting to change. He heard small things, little things, crucial things. Boys had died on the hatching ground, the stumbling dragons mauling them to death. If your dragon died, you lost part of your soul, and were forever a broken man – some went insane. If your dragon mated, you mated with the rider of your dragon's mate. The list went on.

So, Halen had gained perspective and knowledge from his visit. He returned to Salt's Clearing on a trading caravan, considering what he had heard and seen. There were so many things, so many little things, that the Weyrs didn't tell the youngsters they searched. They had working to maintain the illusion that dragons were the greatest blessing ever bestowed upon the race. Furthermore, when someone Impresses and is Impressed by a dragon, it creates a powerful bond of overwhelmingly strong love between the now lifelong compatriots. In Halen's experience, that was terrible. If there was a spectrum of the most powerful motivating forces, one of the extremes would be love – love, that terrible phenomenon that led people to do what no other man would. That love that would drive a man insane. If either dragon or rider died, the other would try to the best of his ability to end the suffering of life, stop the pain...

Still, the good might outweigh the bad for those holder's children who were lucky enough to be Searched and Impress dragons of their own. But not for Halen. What outraged him the most was that if _he_, Halen the holdless of Salt's Clearing was searched, they would being forcing him to defend **_with his very life_** that same society who had shunned him because, really, of nothing but his occupation. He would not, could not, would **_fight_** to not, defend those who had so badly misjudged him. What was worse, he wouldn't be able to defend his own countrymen! They lived on worthless land. Dragons didn't ride thread above Salt's Clearing. Fortunately, dragons didn't Search at Salt's Clearing, and he hadn't encountered a search during his stays at Bitra and Benden. With luck, it would never come to that.

All things should be taken in their proper measures. Hatred was as powerful as love. He took back hatred with him to Salt's Clearing, but he took it sparingly. Too much hatred, and he could end up like Thella. Hatred was interesting. In some ways it was better than love, because love is blind, and can be direct. Both can consume a man's soul, and both can block a man's good judgment. In any event, Halen found himself allied with the darker of the two philosophical opposites, and was careful to keep it in check. It was a powerful asset, and was always there for him to draw on, but it didn't overcome him. All things in their proper portions and measures.

Halen took up his old way of life again. Life was as it always was, simple yet filled with the excitement of the hunt, and Halen drove his hate from his mind and soul. He was home, and would stay there. The Weyrs wouldn't take him here. He relaxed. He made himself a wher-hide and leather hunting suit, and bought a good knapsack with a few spare credits. Halen forged a good combat dagger and a skinning knife. Life was simple again. Halen liked it in Salt's Clearing.  
Shortly after he reached his fifteenth turn, something shattered his peaceful existence. It had been early in the year, with no threadfall and nothing out of the ordinary. The traders had told him that Ramoth had clutched again, but Halen had payed it no heed. He never had before and he doubted he ever would. All it meant was that very soon, some children would be very happy, children who had none of his reservations about being a dragonriders. There were enough problems in the world, he decided, without deliberately trying to make more. Let those children be happy. He could keep his personal vendettas to himself.

However, on one of his frequent visits to the clearing, the gathering point was buzzing with chatter and rumors. When Halen asked what had happened, the answer stopped him cold in his tracks. Benden had searched Salt's Clearing. Denat, a trappers son, had been taken. Denat was only a turn younger than Halen! Benden was searching Salt's Clearing now. Shells! Halen tried to shake it from his mind. After actually helping to forge a combat dagger as a present for Denat (a "congratulations" for Impressing), Halen was determined to forget about the incident. He said little or nothing about Denat or the Search, and, although troubled, returned to hunting.

When he had heard, late last turn, that Ramoth had clutched again, he was therefore never sure why he started doing what he did. He stopped hunting frequently, and spent most of his time in and around the Clearing. The dragons would be Searching soon! Why was he here? Why, Shells, why was he doing this? He didn't want to be Seached! Was it his damned pride? Damnation, was that it? No, it might be an element... but he knew what it was. It was his hate. He was flaunting his scorn, his hate, and his fear of being Searched. Let them come. He'd show them! If they tried to take him, he'd stop them. By any means necessary. And Halen damned himself for letting pride and hate get the better of him.

Noon of the fourteenth day of the sixteenth turn of the pass, the men he hated most, those damned dragonriders appeared in the sky above Salt's Clearing. One blue and one green. His hate had grown, he knew, and despite his best efforts, half of his hate was irrational now. He was so used to thinking of Search as damned that he damned the riders themselves, although they had done nothing except see the holdless as honorless. Shells, now that they were Searching in Salt's they didn't even do that anymore! It was just everything else that infuriated Halen. He wouldn't fight for Pern. They'd get him over his dead body.

People were pointing now, and flooding into the square. Halen dropped his pack, bow, and quiver, and put one foot against the wall of the tavern and relaxed, feeling strangely smug about what he was doing. The two riders landed and began to confer. Halen sized up the men. Each was tall, dark, and muscled. However, unless he was quite mistaken, Halen was taller and stronger than either. He tried to look at objectively. He, Halen, could never defeat a dragon. The only way that he could isolate the dragon from the rider in open combat would be to open a challenge to a duel. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that. As much as he hated dragonriders, fighting was a last resort. Always. With no exceptions. And he didn't want to kill either man.

Killing a man was one of the most terrible things that a person could ever do, but killing a dragonrider was the worst. When the rider died, the dragon died with him, so you had killed not one but two people. Realistically, however, Halen probably won't kill either man. As a matter of fact, against two riders, he would probably lose (although the riders wouldn't be trying to kill him any more than he would be trying to kill them). But he would go down fighting, and he wouldn't go down alone.

There was palpable excitement in the air. Halen could taste it. One of the riders turned to face the crowd, and Halen saw his belt knife: shorter and blunter than Halen's own. Halen began to wonder how best to disarm his opponent of that weapon, but the deep, mature voice of the rider snapped Halen back to reality.

"We come on Search for Benden Wyer! I am D'sen, rider of the blue Sayth, and my compatriot is B'fol, rider of the green Gereth." As soon as the words had left D'sen's mouth, chatter broke out among the people of Salt's Clearing. Halen could see the youngsters, boys his age, eyes wide with excitement. Halen knew his personal feelings, which he felt was how these boys _should_ feel, but what power had he to influence them? He was no harper. Just looking at those grins, he knew that nothing he could say or do would even dent their excitement or hope.

D'sen held up his hands for quiet."We are only looking for teenagers of the age of twelve turns or older. If all of the children between the ages of twelve and seventeen would come forth..." Those hopefuls eliminated by nothing but age, hung their heads, as if inadequate, and plodded back to their parents. B'fol chuckled. "Don't worry! We'll be back in a few turns when you're older." Halen heard mixed complaints. He almost shrugged, although he tried to maintain an impartial visage. They were too young. Imagine some of them trying to ride a dragon! Let them mature.

Potential candidates came forth. Halen made the decision to not come forth. He was having second thoughts, despite his endless hatred for the Search. He wasn't quite ready to actually present himself, just as he wouldn't tried to kill a mountain beast with his bare fists. He was wearing adult garb; perhaps they would just pass by.

Minutes ticked by. Halen stood absolutely, like a statue. Watching the two riders. D'sen was watching one of nervious mothers close to him... And then, suddenly their gazes locked. Halen's rage spiked, seemingly without reason. Perhaps it was because he knew that D'sen knew that he was a potential candidate. _If you want me, come and get me, _Halen thought, not breaking his gaze. Then, suddenly, D'sen broke the gaze, and Halen saw why. The dragons had chosen a young boy, so it seemed.

"Hello, son," said D'sen. "What's your name?"

"Gyron, sir" replied the boy, smiling.

"The dragons have chosen you, Gyron." Chatter broke out. Halen couldn't hear what they were saying, but he doubted they were kind encouragement. D'sen stepped back, and Halen could see the boy. He was not yet five feet tall, a bit short for his age, more plain than handsome, yes, plain-faced, strong, and now positively beaming. B'fol helped D'sen to lead the boy out of the crowd, the children still chattering behind him.

Halen looked at the boy's face, his smile stretching ear to ear, and was reminded of how powerless he, Halen, truly was to influence others. Look at that smile! His hatred, all his zeal and anger, seemed feeble compared to the hope in that boy's eyes. Halen was no harper, but he doubted all of the greatest orators in the history of Pern could have instilled doubt in that boy. Words were so impotent, so useless. Halen knew the truth, the whole story, what _could_ happen. That boy could die on the hatching ground. But, by the First Shell, what could Halen do? Nothing. He would just have to watch. For all his skill and strength, he couldn't have changed that boy's opinion of dragons in a million years.

The riders, Gyron, and the woman who he assumed was Gyron's mother, conversed for a few short seconds, ending with Gyron almost _skipping_ back to his house with happiness. One day, Gyron would understand. If he Impressed, that was.

Minutes ticked by. The dragons didn't find a single other suitable candidate. The crowd began to disperse. Disappointment was in the air. But Halen had a feeling that he wasn't done for the day just yet.

D'sen and B'fol started walking towards him, their dragons trailing them. Halen took his foot off of the wall and put his chin up just a little. Halen started to mentally coach himself. This was it. No running away now. Just do anything and everything to avoid a fight. These are dragonmen. Some of the best trained fighters in the world. Winning... Impossible. Try diplomacy, its all that can be done. If they want to fight, make them pay the price. That's all there is to it.

Halen, to the great suprise of the two riders, bowed at their approach. "Good morning, Master D'sen – rider of the blue Sayth – and Master B'fol – who rides the green Gereth. How may I be of service?" D'sen smiled.

"You have a good memory, son. What is your name?" Halen shot a glance at the dragons.

"Unfortunately, Master D'sen, that is the first of – so I predict – several requests that I will not fulfill."

If they knew his name, that was just a way they could have power over him. If they didn't know his name... That was a petty reason, but good enough for Halen's purposes. The two dragonmen looked at each other. A dragon poked Halen with its nose, and Halen shot both of them a withering glare.

"How old are you, son?" D'sen asked.

"Sixteen turns next month."

"And where are your parents?"

"They're dead," Halen replied, not letting his voice quaver with memory of his father.

"Oh. My apologies."

"No offense was taken, dragonrider."

Members of the crowd had taken notice of their little conversation and were stopping and listening with interest. This was going to be quite a day.

"Well, young man, the dragons have picked you. Gather your things. We'll be leaving soon."

"And if I refuse?" Halen grinned inwardly with the consternation that he caused, but kept his expression the same. He was going to handle this diplomatically. D'sen and B'fol looked at each other again.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, Master Dragonrider, that I have no desire to be a dragonrider. Quite the contrary, in fact – I'd much rather stay here." Things were simpler here. He liked it here. Why would they take him away against his will?

"You don't want a dragon?" asked D'sen in disbelief.

Halen couldn't suppress a grin at the rider's expression.

"No, Master D'sen, I'm afraid not. I'll have to turn down your offer to become a candidate. However, there are any number of young men and women here who have considerably more ambition than I do, and would love nothing better than to have a dragon beside them. Why don't you give my candidacy to one of them?" That was reasonable. Wasn't it?

"That's not the way it works. The dragons have picked you, not one of them. Why would you want to stay here?"

"Once again, I will tell you that, Master Dragonrider. In any event, if you refuse to not try to wrong me, I will not come with you."

"Well, you have to come with us, lad. You don't really have a choice. And you have to tell us your name, while you're at it."

Halen shook his head. No! Did they mean to _forcefully_ take him from his home and hearth? He began to bubble with rage again, but kept his tone level.

"I will not. You will consider nothing else?"

The two looked at each other again. "No. We will not."

Halen sighed and looked at the noonday sky. It was so peaceful. He couldn't see any wherries. A few clouds. It might be the last time he saw the sky from the ground of Salt's Clearing. So peaceful.

"It shouldn't have come to this," Halen muttered. He drew his combat dagger with a practiced hand. Eyes blazing, he met D'sen's gaze. "If you wish to drag me away, then you'll have fight for me! Dragonrider D'sen, rider of the blue Sayth, of Benden Wyer, I challenge you to a duel!" Halen threw his skinning knife into the dirt by his other belongings, and the fight was one.

It passed in a blur of blood, sweat, and adrenaline. D'sen went down with suprising ease. An enraged B'fol, in his turn, challenged Halen to a duel. Halen defeated him as well. Too simple. Too easy. Was this what dragonmen were made of? Out of the corner of his eye, while the crowd roared about him incredulous at his triumph, he saw D'sen stir. Halen, a contemptuous sneer on his face, crossed the field of battle and gave him a swift kick to the head, and D'sen was down again. The battle was over.

And so, Halen found himself darting through the small grove of trees, blanketed with snow, surrounding Salt's Clearing into a small tunnel to the south, too small for the dragons to enter. The ground was hard, the cavern badly lit and damp, and the walls hard, but it was refuge. His vision was practically blurring with exertion. He needed to rest. He hadn't noticed _anything _while he had been on his way here. He might have been followed... The other dragonriders could be coming. How long did he have before...

He felt a hand on his shoulder, and he whirled around, dagger in one hand. "Relax, Halen, it's only me." It was Penet.

Halen sheathed his weapon and embraced his old friend. Penet was another hunter, really Halen's only friend, and, coincidentally, the only person in all Salt's Clearing would know Halen's name. Both Halen's father and Halen himself were very private people, and, despite the close-knit community, few knew exactly who he was. Not since his father's death, nows turns past, had Halen ever been shifted into the public's eye.

Halen was no fool. He knew that a Search was coming. He told Penet that if he, Halen, got away that they should meet in this tunnel, and they could figure out what to do next. They were here, now. Although Penet was three turns Halen's senior, they were the best of friends. Penet understood and respected Halen's hatred towards the Search, and two had conspired together.

Penet was garbed almost the same as Halen, with a pack, bow, quiver, and two belt daggers, all wher-hide or leather. He was, like almost everyone in the clearing, strong, and dark, and tall, if shorter than Halen by a little bit.

"You had some guts taking on those riders." Penet had been watching, Halen realized, even if he hadn't seen him. "So," Penet began, "What do we do next? I'd recommend running, but you're not the type."

Halen chuckled. "No, old friend, we're not running." Halen put down his pack and rummaged through the contents, producing a map drawn onto a fur. It showed the general Benden Weyr area. Halen traced his finger along Benden River, which wound north into the mountains, almost up to Benden Weyr. "Do you think you can meet me here with a small boat or raft?" Penet studied the map. "Sure. When?"

Halen rolled up the map and offered it to Penet. "As soon as you can after they take me. You might have to wait several days. We don't have a hope of succeeding, you know, here and now, I mean. Even if we were to flee, they could chase us from adragonback, and they'd send out a warning to look for people who look like us. We have to stand and fight. And I'll lose. You" he pointed at Penet, "are not going to help me."

"What!" Penet exclaimed. "You need a good sword to fight beside you!" Penet's hand fell to his sword, laying on the ground. Halen cursed himself silently, remembering that he hadn't brought his own. But then, since he would lose anyway, why chance the sword?

"No, old friend, they'd overwhelm the both of us. The rest of those riders' wing is on its way. We wouldn't stand a chance."

"Fine. What do we do then? You just want me to meet you with a boat on some undetermined day for your daring escape? Or should we dress your wounds first?"

Halen looked at his left arm and chest in dismay. He'd forgotten that he'd been wounded. None of the cuts were deep, however, and all had started to heal already. Bleeding had stopped, and scabs were already forming.

"They're just scratches." He replied curtly. "I'll manage. No, old friend, we're going back."

Halen began drew a snowy white cloak and hood out of his pack, and began stuffing his weapons in it.

"How did I know you were going to say that?" said Penet, grinning, drawing the same camouflaged cloak out of his backpack.

They changed quickly, stuffing their weapons in, and, when they were done, they look for all the world like a pair of unremarkable travelers. "Let's go." said Halen.

The two emerged from the tunnel at the opposite end, which led into a creek, now frozen by the cold weather of the early months. New snowfall lightly blanketed the ground. The branches of the surround trees were covered in snow. Halen remembered that brook. He had taught himself to swim there after his father passed away. Penet and Halen used to go fishing here all the time when they were younger. A smile broke out on his face. It was so peaceful here. And so beautiful in the warmer monthes! Once, they had caught a fish so much bigger than anyone had ever believed them capable of! The journeyman fisher in Salt's Clearing had...

"Hey, Halen!" Penet punched him in the arm, bringing him back to reality. "If we don't leave soon, they'll find us." Halen gave one last look at the creek. "Sorry, I was just... thinking. Remembering. All the good times." And for the first time, although he was sure it wouldn't be the last, Halen wondered if, when this was all over, he would find peace.

The two ran off into the woods, looping around into the clearing, coming from behind. It took them a few minutes. Once, they heard a dragon overhead, but the beast thankfully didn't spot them. As Halen ran through the forest, he realized that this would be the last of greenery he would see for a while. There was none in the cold, stone walls of the Weyrs. But there was no time to think about that now. They were almost at the clearing!

They halted abruptly as the reached the edge of the forest. Four riderless dragons were now circling the clearing. Two greens, one of whom was Gereth, a blue, Sayth, and a huge fighting brown that dwarfed the other three. Gereth and Sayth seemed to have calmed down considerably; no longer did Halen hear the deafening roars or fury.

"Alright," said Halen. "We have to time this properly. On my mark." The dragons were doing a good job of covering the clearing, and they would doubtless inspect anyone coming in or out. That huge brown was covering this general but they were enough under the trees to cover their... He was turning!  
"Mark!" They dove into the clearing and mixed with the crowd standing generally around the clearing. The brown didn't seem to notice then when it came around again. "Into the tavern," Halen muttered. "Before someone recognizes us." The tavern, somewhat uncreatively called "Salt's Clearing Drinks and Lodging", was a fairly well maintained two-floored building They entered the tavern, and Halen drew his hood close over his face. "Get three mugs of _klah_ please, and a room upstairs" muttered Halen.

He drew back while Penet made the necessary requests to Mase, the old bartender. Coins changed hands. Halen looked around the tavern. There were no patrons. Good. And, better yet the rooms all faced the square. Penet returned, and the two stole up the stairs. They opened a door to proper room. It was small, as all lodgings tended to be, but good enough. There was also, conveniently enough, a window with wooden shutters. Halen closed them.

Penet was carrying not three, but four mugs of_ klah_, as Halen just noticied. "I think I need one too, Halen. Its freshly brewed." Halen inhaled some greatfully, and slipped his back off of his back, and sat on the straw matress. Tossing Penet what he knew to be the price for three mugs of _klah_. Penet grunted his thanks, and Halen retrieved his spare waterskin from his bag. The first one, as would be expected, was filled with water, but his spare was empty. Halen poured two and most of the third mug into the skin, filling it, while Penet watched, sipping his own mug.

Halen drank a long, statisifying draft, almost draining the last mug. "This might be the last chance I get for a while, so just in case..." Halen trailed off. "You're going to drink some good _klah_?" Penet said in so droll a tone that they both chuckled.

Halen pulled off the winter white cloak and hood, and replaced his weaponry. He then removed one boot and, with one deft movement, pulled the bottom out of it. Penet practically spit out his drink "You're joking, Halen."

"Not in the least, old friend." Halen unsheathed his combat dagger and dropped it carefully in the bottom of the boot, and then replaced the bottom.

"Just in case?", asked Penet.

"Just in case.", Halen confirmed.

"So now what, now that we have daggers in our boots and _klah_ in our stomachs?", asked Penet.

Halen chuckled. "You should have been a harper, Penet." Halen walked over to the shutters and peered out slightly. "Give me a moment to decide what to do."

Those few healers who had taken up residence in Salt's Clearing were conversing with five dragonriders, now in the center of the clearing. Sayth and Gereth had landed, and their fallen riders were being loaded onto the dragons. One, a tall, tanned, very handsome, dark, and strong-looking rider was doing most of the talking, although Halen couldn't hear what he was saying. Halen therefore assumed that that rider was the leader.

"Penet," Halen said softly. "Please hand me my bow and quiver." For a few moments, nothing happened. Halen looked back, and Penet mouthed a silent "Oh." A few more moments and Halen felt Penet sling the quiver of his shoulder and hand him the bow.

Halen leveled the bow, keeping it sideways, until he felt comfortable with the positioning. Then, he slid one well-made arrow from the quiver, fitting it into the flexible string. He aimed at the man he thought to be the leader, and drew back the bow. He took a deep breath, steadied his hands, and looked straight down the shaft of the arrow. It was a clear path. Perfect angle. Killshot.

Halen was an expert marksman. Although he was not well known in the hunting community, he could hit a mountain beast through the throat at three dragonlengths, and took more animals out at range in a week than most did a month. Had he loosed the arrow, the rider would have been a dead man. But Halen let out breath, and slowly relaxed tension on his bow, and carefully removed the arrow.

It was a terrible thing to kill a man, and even more terrible to kill both man and dragon. He wouldn't do it. Not today. He unslung the bow and quiver, and closed the shutters, still staring at them thinking about what he had almost done.

"Penet?"

"Yes?" Penet sounded relieved that his friend had decided against the unforgivable crime.

"You know where my cave is?"

"Yes."

"Could you please take my bow and arrow, as well as my winter cloak and hood, there?"

"Sure, Halen. Of course." He sounded very relieved. "Then meet you in a boat on Benden River?"

"Yes."

"What are you going to do?" Penet asked as he gathered the items.

"Face the riders." He turned to look at Penet.

Penet clasped him on the shoulder. "Take of yourself, buddy." "And you too, Penet." They clasped hands and parted wordlessly. Halen pulled his normal, green hood over his head, as he went down the wooden staircase, towards the back exit. He couldn't shake the feeling that he might never Penet again, hoping for all the world that that wasn't the case. He, Halen, was about to go fight a dragonrider with nothing but a skinning knife (as his combat knife was in his boot), and he probably wouldn't be able to challenge his opponent to a duel, which meant he would have to contend with the dragon as well, not to mention the rider's companions.

Halen pushed open the back door and slipped out, knowing that this time, he had no hope of escape. He could see the rider, flanked by one of his wingmen, walking towards Halen. Halen pulled his hood over his face and looked down. He could hear what they were saying. "I'm telling you F'nor..."

F'nor? F'lar's legendary half-brother? Why was he here? "...we have no hope of finding him if he's fled through the woods..." They were right in front of him.

Halen cleared his throat. "Ahem." The pair looked at him, and F'nor's eyes widened in suprise. "Were you by change looking for me?" Halen asked politely.

/ CLIFFHANGER! I like those. They are excellent stopping points. So, please, once again, I like constructive criticism. Please review and tell me what you think. I'm sorry if there were many errors in this chapter, I wrote at least 10 of the pages all at once.

Until next time, The ACS Dude /


	3. Chapter 2: Orders of the Day

/ Author's Comments:

So, we've reached chapter three! Well, I've got little else extra to say. I've re-read Dragonflight and Dragonquest since I started Chapter 2, as well as reading The Dolphins of Pern. I'm going to try to go more slowly this time, since I wrote most of the last chapter. I'm fairly sure that after this next chapter, I'm going to start running out of initial plot ideas for the story. Also, how am I doing developing Halen's personality?

As always, feedback would be much appreciated.

Chapter Information:

Drafting Began: 2:07:50 PM (GMT), July 19, 2006

Drafting Ended: 3:20:00 AM (GMT), August 4, 2006

Uploaded: 3:34:30 AM (GMT), August 4, 2006

The Rogue of Pern

Chapter 2: Orders of the Day

Salt's Clearing, Northwest of Bitra Hold

Present Pass, 16.1.14

It had been the last day of Search, the _last day_, and something had gone, on the last day, catastrophically wrong in a small clearing northwest of Bitra Hold. But what precisely was the problem? F'nor didn't know for sure. The day had started like most others – unremarkable. Benden had, at the start of the Search, sent out wings in each of the cardinal directions (with the exception of east), and he, F'nor, rider of the brown Canth, had been assigned to the north. F'lar, F'nor's half-brother and Weyrleader of Benden, had been eager to personally oversee the Search, as he had done with many in the past, but reluctantly decided to stay at Benden Weyr on account of Ramoth and Lessa. It had only been last turn – just one turn prior – that a queen egg had been taken straight from the Hatching Ground, from under Ramoth's very nose. Now, Ramoth was preoccupied with the worry that history might repeat itself (although there was no queen egg in this hatching). F'lar (along with his great bronze Mnementh) had stayed behind to comfort and calm Lessa and Ramoth.

F'nor, for one, didn't believe that another theft would occur (especially after the stolen queen egg was returned), but he was concerned about Ramoth's overprotectiveness. The gold wasn't letting any firelizards onto the hatching ground, and F'nor hoped that, like she had last time, the queen would allow the candidates onto the hatching ground (though it might take some persuasion). Other than that, it had seemed like a routine search, and he, usually wingsecond and sometimes wingleader, found himself leading his own wing on Search.

He didn't expect or anticipate trouble. There never had been in the past. Trouble in the form of a shortage of candidates? Not likely. He seen many a worthy lad on his infrequent trips to the south, and Canth had a knack for spotting potential. Trouble in the form an open challenge of Benden's authority or right? This was a _pass_ by the First Shell! No Lord Holder would even consider defying the Weyrs. Every youngster dreamed of riding Thread astride his or her very own dragon! Who would even think of resisting Benden?

It had happened. Somehow, it had happened. F'nor had been with two of his wingmen, out Searching a minor hold west of Bitra – the dragons had just spotted a promising young woman – when Canth had told F'nor that D'sen's Sayth and B'fol's Gereth were frantic and excited about something, something that was not merely a promising candidate. F'nor immediately halted the Search – telling the local Holder and the prospective candidates that something urgent had come up – and consulted with his two wingmen, and had just recalled where the two riders were – a small clearing to the north – when the three dragonmen heard the full report. Canth told F'nor, all too calmly in F'nor's opinion, that D'sen and B'fol had dueled a young man that they had Searched, a young man who had been strangely reluctant to come. Worse yet, the two riders had lost. That was all the brown could get out of either of the dragons, each now half mad with rage, but it didn't matter. It was more than F'nor needed to know to be, within mere seconds, fastening his riding straps.

It had been barely half a minute ago, but F'nor already had trouble remembering it. It had happened so fast, as if in a blur. He vaguely remembering yelling to the Hold they had been Searching that his wing had to respond to a dire emergency, but his mind had been elsewhere. Why would anyone have dueled dragonmen? Really just to not come on Search? The shocking cold of _between_ knocked him back to his senses. This youth, whom he as of yet knew little about, was not the first in history to not want to join the Weyr. F'nor had read through the Records of the other Searches; there must have been thousands of Searches, and this case was not unique.

From time to time, someone who was Searched simply didn't want to go to the Weyrs, for whatever reason. Usually, this happened during the intervals, when the need for riders wasn't as urgent, the pressure to accept not as intense, and the call to arms not as strong. However, on rare occasions, a youth rejected the honor of being Searched during a Pass, for any number of reasons.

Sometimes, it was because the young candidate simply didn't think that he had what it took to be a dragonrider – the dragons, however, were rarely wrong, and could sense the feelings of inadequacy. In that situation, there was nothing to do but reassure the candidate until Impression. Impressing a dragon changed a man. Some walked out of the Hatching Ground, supporting a newborn dragon – his new lifelong companion - totally different from those who walked in. Yes, dragons could bring out hidden potential in a man. Bring out courage, strength, self-esteem... all the qualities needed to defend the world from Thread. No candidate who impressed was ever inadequate for his or her role; the dragons knew. If the lucky youth thought himself insufficient or unworthy, it was merely psychological.

Unfortunately, a lack of self-confidence was a trivial and easily remedied problem compared to the prevalent reason for the handful of cases in which a prospect attempted to reject Searching. F'nor had seen the Records for nine full passes, and even if he hadn't read them thoroughly, he had seen them. Everything was taken down, from such trivial matters as the exact recipe for the porridge to the names of the riders and dragons who died fighting thread. The Search records were very detailed – listing who was Searched, when, from where, and from what family, and other notes considered to be important. If a candidate had tried to reject candidacy (which was impossible in the laws of the Weyrs; only the blood heir of a Lord Holder had immunity), this was noted. Although only four or five cases came up every pass, it was too many. Too many.

During a Pass, population concentrations changed drastically. The majority of people always stayed withing the traditionally established Holds, but, during an interval, many people left the protective shelter of the caves and established themselves somewhere out in the open on Pern, or migrated from place to place. This helped alleviate population problems. However, when the red star rose again, everyone found a space in a hold – found a space or, more often than not, died. With the Holds full of every able-bodied, skilled, and dedicated worker the Lord Holders could find, all the clear problems that high population density brought began to set in, and in full effect. Diseases ran rampant in the close quarters, especially at Gathers, food supplies began to dwindle (Falls could restrict movement, and the Thread itself could scorch and destroy fields – Seaside halls, where fish were plentiful, were often exceptions), and crime and uncleanliness became more and more frequent. Men died in the Holds, from disease beyond the abilities of Healer Hall to cure (or for lack of a treatment beyond the abilities of the family to pay for) and starvation. It was strange to think how either course of action resulted in deaths.

Though many lives were saved from the deadly Thread, they were lives bought with the lives of others. The side effects of the measures taken to protect men from the Thread, although lamentable, were necessary. Lamentable but necessary. And it was this these deaths, the price payed in full for the continued survival of tens of thousands of people, that caused... There had been times. Shells! There had been times when the Weyrs had Searched and found a candidate who had not been willing to go for one reason: a loved one was dying. It could be that a youth was Searched, and his brother or his sister or his father or his mother was about to expire. It not only could be. It had happened. And more than once, that poor child had just said "No." F'nor couldn't blame them. If F'lar had been dying during the hatching (although both F'nor and F'lar were weyrbred), and F'nor hadn't known ahead of time that he was going to impress Canth, F'nor didn't know if he himself would have stayed at his half-brother's bedside or gone to the hatching ground. The weyrbred had something of a choice (any boy above twelve turns had the right to stand on the hatching ground, but they were not forced, although they undoubtly could be in some situations), the Searched really had no choice in the matter – they were specifically chosen from among all the holds on Pern – or, at least, those under the protection of the Searching Weyr.

The Weyrs, and their noble purpose, were greater than any man. A rider, in his time (if during a Pass), could save dozens, if not hundreds, of lives and untold resources. The founding principles of the Weyrs were rigid; embodying the idea that no one had a greater purpose than the Weyrs themselves. F'lar had snapped many when he had come to power, but, for the most part, the traditions of the Weyrs were intact. If tradition was followed, dying sibling or not, the candidate had no choice – he was required to come, and if he didn't want to... well, he had no choice.

Fortunately, men were not machines. For those extreme, concessions were made. The youths being Searched were old enough to understand the seriousness of the situation, both of being Searched and of a relative dying. If the shells were still soft, if there were still some days before Hatching... the candidate was allowed to stay with his or her relative until he or she expired. However, if the Shells were hard, if hatching was imminent, Weyr law held fast. In either case, the few times F'nor had pondered the morality of the whole situation, (most often when he was on Search), he always managed to justify it. For a young man or women who had lost a loved one, a dragon would help them through the worst of the sorrow.

Still... When first the outlines of dragons appeared in the sky and began the slow spiral of descent downwards, most of those young faces looked up and prayed that they too might one day ride adragonback. On the occasions that he thought about it, it sometimes made F'nor shiver knowing that, it could be, somewhere among the crowd of hopeful faces, one, perhaps the only, worthy boy or girl, might want to stay. If he or she Impressed, the good outweighed the bad, but it now chilled F'nor to think what would happen if the youth didn't.

F'nor felt the biting wind against his face as he and his wingmen emerged from _between, _high above the ground. Only a few minutes prior, D'sen and B'fol had dueled this dark young man, as the hysterical Sayth had described him, and, oddly enough, lost. F'nor, when he had looked at the Search Records the first time he went on Search, now almost twenty turns ago, he had not taken of note of how many candidate rejections had taken place – some dozens, but he didn't have an exact figure. At the time, Fax, Lord Holder of seven Holds, not allowing the Search had seemed the greater concern. Fortunately, the self-styled Lord of the Higher Reaches had proved wiser, and Benden had had its Search.

However, just as there was never a recorded time of a Lord Holder refusing to allow a Search, F'nor doubted any young man had ever gone so far as to duel dragonmen over a Search. He would have to consult the records, but it didn't matter. Even there had been another duel or duels, the candidate had _won._

Canth began the slow landing spiral, and the vague outlines of the people on the ground became visible, with blue Sayth and green Gereth hovering just above their fallen riders. As the Canth looped lower, F'nor couldn't help but wonder why. Even a dying family member wouldn't compel someone to fight a dragonman. The rider could now make out D'sen, seeming asleep on the ground, with several men apparently attending his injuries. Had D'sen erred? The blue rider was well-known for his forgetfulness and lack of diplomatic skill. B'fol was not forgetful, but occasionally neglected his duties (never during a Fall, of course). The two of them were reactive, not pro-active decision-makers. Could one of them have made a mistake? What, _what_ could have driven the youth to such extremes?

The Weyrs after all, were not the villains of Pern. Quite the opposite, in fact. But, for whatever the reason, because of the events that had transpired here today, F'nor had a feeling that Weyrs had made an enemy. The boy had fought two duels, two that would no doubt be among the toughest of his life, for his freedom from the Weyrs. The great irony was that in defeating two dragonmen, for at most an hour of freedom, he had ultimately sealed his fate. If the problem had indeed been something a little more subtly diplomatic than D'sen was used to handling, and if F'nor had been in D'sen's place, F'nor would have negotiated a compromise (if necessary, even taking the compromise to F'lar to approve it). They could have probably worked something out. But, now that the candidate had dueled and _beaten_ two dragonriders, the Benden Weyr would not compromise and F'lar, F'nor was sure, would want him taken back to the Weyr for, if not candidacy, questioning. Somehow the bitter paradox disturbed F'nor.

_Something bothers you?_ brown Canth inquired. They were just above the ground, now and the dragon was landing with short, powerful flaps of his wings. A waiting crowd gazed at them, using their hands to shield their eyes from the sun. _Nothing much. I was trying to make sense of Sayth's summons and the youth's actions. _F'nor unbuckled his riding straps as Canth's feet touched the ground. F'nor began to dismount._Are you sure that what Sayth tried to report actually happened? It seems unbelievable._ Canth snapped his jaw in a strictly draconic shrug. _True enough. Sayth was angry, but he and Gereth have calmed down. _F'nor, feet now planted firmly on the ground, shot a glance over his shoulder at the pair of dragons. They were hovering a dragonlength or two above the clearing, stationary, seemingly vigilant. _I believe them._ Canth told his rider calmly. _Dragon to dragon. If you don't believe Sayth or Gereth, then perhaps you should hear the story, human to human. _The dragon's head turn, and F'nor followed Canth's gaze, which came to rest on the fallen B'fol, currently being attended by two men. F'nor nodded and called his wingmen. "R'bas, G'lan!" The wingleader jerked his head at B'fol.

As F'nor approached B'fol, one of the men who had been kneeling over the dragonman's unconscious form turned his head and motioned for the brown rider to come closer. F'nor kneeled beside the downed rider. The green rider's tunic had been ripped open, and his chest, although surprisingly devoid of blood, was already discolored from bludgeoning. Aside from that, B'fol seemed to be fine. If F'nor hadn't known better, he would have sworn the rider had fallen asleep at his post, which was not uncharacteristic of the green rider.

The man who had motioned to him turned to look the F'nor, and the wingleader recognized the journeyman's stitches on his collar. The man extended his hand, and F'nor took it.

"I'm Tras, Healer of Salt's Clearing, not officially affiliated with Healer's Hall. And, you are, Master Dragonrider...?"

"F'nor, rider of the brown Canth, wingleader of this part of the Search."

"So this is one of your riders, then? B'fol, I think his name was."

"He doesn't look too bad."

"He's fine. At first, I thought he might have broken a rib, but, fortunately, most of his injuries are just superficial."

"He doesn't seem to have many superficial injuries."

"It was a fairly quick fight, I think. He sustained some head trauma, and probably a bad concussion, but he'll be more or less fine after a good night's sleep."

"What exactly happened?"

"I'm not sure exactly, Wingleader. I came out to see the Search, and that went well enough: young Gyron was Searched, and he was exuberant, as anyone would be. I went back to the Healer's Hall, if you could call it that; I was treating a hunter who was wounded about a sevenday ago by a mountain beast. Anyway, everything seemed fine, but less than five minutes later, I heard another loud commotion outside. So, I ran out into the square, and your rider B'fol was being slammed against a wall by a young hunter. That one," Tras gestured to D'sen, who was also slumped on the ground, "was already out on the ground. After the hunter finished with B'fol, the blue rider tried to get up again. The young man kicked him once or twice, and the rider was finished. He yelled to treat your men, and then bolted. Why what happened happened, I have no idea."

"One moment. Didn't you say someone was Searched, other than the hunter?"

"Oh yes! Gyron. Hm... You could go collect him, but I don't think he's finished packing. This was only a matter of minutes ago, Wingleader F'nor."

"Alright, once we've caught this duelist. But before we even do that, how is D'sen?"

"Ah, the blue rider! D'sen was it? For the life of me I couldn't remember his name. Ah, yes."

Tras stood up, leaving the other man to tend to B'fol, and starting walking towards D'sen. F'nor stood to follow him. _The rest of the wing is here,_ Canth informed him. F'nor glanced skyward, and, surely enough, seven more colored blobs were descending towards the clearing. _Tell them to land and wait for orders._ The brown rider turned his attention back to the journeyman, now squatting before the fallen D'sen. F'nor took up a similar position across from the Healer. D'sen looked much worse. His riding gear was stained with blood around the chest, arms, and hands, and a trickle of the liquid was also flowing from his mouth. He was clearly bruised in several places.

Tras took a cloth from his satchel and mopped the blood around D'sen's mouth. "We took a look at D'sen first, though his blue would hardly let us near him." F'nor glanced up at Sayth, still hovering over his rider. "I was really worried. I was sure he would have a skull fracture, or worse. But, by the First Shell, he must have a thick skull!" F'nor chuckled. "More than you know, Healer." Tras raised an eyebrow.

"He avoided that particular problem, but he didn't dodge shock, stun, concussion, and severe head trauma. The bleeding wounds are just scratches. I have no doubt that when he wakes up in a few hours that he will have an exquisitely painful headache. Not to mention a number of lovely bruises. But he'll be on his feet relatively soon."

"Are they both healthy enough to be transported? _Between?_"

"Definitely. As long as they aren't jostled too much."

F'nor thanked the Healer and turned around to face his wingmen, who had assembled behind him as Tras had explained D'sen's and B'fol's conditions. F'nor began to uncharacteristically bark orders.

"G'lan, pick four men and fly out in a spiral wing-to-wing. Look for anyone, and I mean anyone leaving the clearing. If we get a better description than "tall dark young hunter" of who we are looking for, well tell you. We've got no time to lose." As G'lan picked his men, F'nor turned to R'bas, his temporary wingsecond. "R'bas, question whoever you need to and find out who the hunter was and what direction he went in, along with anything else relevant, such as how the fight started." R'bas nodded and looked around for potential witnesses. "The rest of you, help me get D'sen and B'fol onto Sayth and Gereth so they can get back to the Weyr. Just be careful not to bump them around too much." _Canth, please tell Sayth and Gereth to land. And tell anyone idle to either help G'lan with his aerial search or to circle the_ _clearing._

With the help of Tras and his apprentice, the dragonmen loaded the men onto their dragons quickly. F'nor, and he was sure, many of his other men, would have liked to ride in the aerial sweep, or even gather information with R'bas. However, as much as he wanted to, F'nor's first duty was to the men currently under his command. He had to make sure that they made it, safe and sound, back to Benden Weyr.

"There you go. You'll have to fasten those straps doubly across... yes, like that. Now, if they're going _between_ you should make sure they're at least warm..." Tras's voice was suddenly drowned out by Canth's own voice. _R'bas has found something of interest. He comes. _

F'nor looked wildly around for a moment before locating his wingsecond walking quickly towards the group of riders, leading a young boy behind him. The brown rider glanced back at B'fol and D'sen, strapped firmly to their dragons, and said, "Alright! Sayth, Gereth! You can go back to Benden Weyr whenever you are ready." F'nor then turned back to R'bas, who was, along with his young companion, now waiting just behind the wingleader.

"Hello, R'bas. Who is this?"

"This is young Gyron, who was Searched by D'sen and B'fol prior to the... unpleasantness."

"Hello, Gyron. I'm F'nor, wingleader of this part of the Search. We've run into some trouble, as you undoubtedly know..." - the youngster nodded - "but as soon as we get that cleared up, we'll take you back to Benden. Are you packed?"

"Yes, F'nor, sir" said the youth, unable to supress a huge smile. "I'm ready to go whenever."

F'nor returned the grin. The brown rider had always been the joking type -laughter and smiles came easily to him – but this boy's youthful optimism was refreshing somehow.

"Take a few minutes to make sure you have everything, and then come back here with your pack. Then, whenever we can spare someone, we'll take you to Benden Weyr."

Gyron's smile grew and the youth nodded, turned and half-ran, half-skipped back to his house on the other side of the clearing. F'nor watched him go and then turned back to R'bas.

"Did you just find Gyron? Or did you find out something about this hunter?"

"I did." R'bas began to walk across the clearing, and F'nor followed him. "He fled into the forest to the south, through these two buildings." R'bas indicated with his hand. "I've already informed G'lan, and he is sweeping the forest to the south, although its almost impossible to see through the trees from dragonback. Tracking is going to be a problem. I asked around, and no one knows who he is exactly, although he is definitely a hunter. Someone said that the boy's father died some Turns ago, although he might be wrong. Regardless, no know seemed to know him personally."

"The ground was snowy." said F'nor. "Why not follow his tracks?"

"That's true," R'bas replied, "but the ground in the clearing is rocky." R'bas stamped his foot for emphasis. "The snow has melted or has been cleared out. There are dozens of trails starting just to the south of here. We can't follow him by tracks – not quickly, anyway."

"What about how the duel started?"

"No one seemed to be around when it started. No one knows exactly what happened, just that it did."

F'nor felt the a strong the back of his neck, and he whirled around just in time to see Gereth and Sayth lift off and go between. R'bas, however, continued talking.

"We did get a little bit of a description."

"Which was?"

"A little bit tanned, with a small traveler's pack, a bow and quiver, and two knives: a skinning knife and a combat knife. He's wearing leather armor, not studded, with no cape and a hood. He kept the hood down during the battle."

"Have you told the sweep riders?"

"Yes."

"Alright, then what about the problem of tracking him?"

R'bas sighed. "I'm telling you, F'nor we have no hope of finding him if he's fled through the woods..."

F'nor heard someone clear his throat. "Ahem." F'nor located the source as a hooded individual standing next to the building behind them. Wearing non-studded leather hunter's armor. With a small traveler's pack. "Were you, by chance, looking for me?"

F'nor's eyes widened in surprise. He fit the description to the letter. He was just taller than F'nor. He wasn't carrying a bow, and had only one dagger, but there was an empty sheath hanging from the hunter's belt. _Canth! Tell Rarath to recall G'lan and to tell R'bas to get the other riders, but to also give me a chance to talk to the youth! _Canth acknowledged. The response would be less confused than if each rider got Canth's message individually. F'nor chanced a glance over his shoulder; the rest of the wing was only about a dragonlength away. F'nor snapped his head back and met the hunter's dark eyes as R'bas bolted away from the two. The youth's eyes never moved from F'nor.

"I think we are," said F'nor, to answer the candidate's question. "Are you the one who dueled D'sen and B'fol."

"Indeed I am, Master F'nor, rider of the brown Canth."

F'nor was about to ask him how he knew F'nor's dragon's name, before remembering the considerable renown he had achieved. The youth could have easily overheard his name, given that R'bas had just said it.

"Why did you?"

"They wanted me to go to Benden Weyr as a candidate. I did not. And if necessary, a man should fight for what he believes in."

"Why don't you want the candidacy? Why reject it."

"That's for me to know. Let me just say that of all the Weyrs practices, I dislike the Search and candidacy in particular."

"What is your name?"

"Once again, Master Dragonrider, that is for me to know."

It hadn't exactly been D'sen's lack of diplomacy that had caused the duel, if this was the same attitude the hunter had taken towards the two Searchers.

"Would you please come back to Benden Weyr for candidacy?" Perhaps asking nicely...

"I have to respectfully decline your generous offer, Lord F'nor."

"It is a great honor to be Searched."

"I know, but I do not wish for this honor. Perhaps you would like to give my candidacy to another youth of Salt's Clearing – one who would appreciate the honor more. Rumor has it that your brown Canth is very adept at finding candidates."

F'nor considered that, if only momentarily. It went against tradition, certainly, but it was reasonable. He certainly couldn't make that decision himself. Only F'lar could, and F'nor somehow doubted that his half-brother would agree with the notion. This youth might not realize it, but he had a great deal of potential. He and Canth did indeed have a knack for spotting strong candidates. Speaking of which...

_Canth?_

_Yes?_

_What do you think of this hunter? About Searching him, I mean._

_Let me get closer. I am circling the clearing, and I can't see him well._

After a brief moment, F'nor felt the strong, fractured breeze created by a dragon hovering nearby.

_He has great potential, _Canth decided. _I think I could _hear _him if I tried, but I do not think he wants me too. Regardless, he is strong of will and of thought. I can _feel_ resentment from him. I think he wishes we would leave him alone._

That, unfortunately, sealed the deal. When F'lar had Searched Lessa (for F'nor had been there, as F'lar's wingsecond), F'lar had remarked that he would have forcefully taken her back to Benden Weyr, even though she had a blood claim to Ruatha Hold. Then, though need had been dire, but it hadn't even been during a pass! Fortunately, Lessa had come willingly.

Canth had confirmed what F'nor had suspected: that the hunter was a very strong prospective candidate. He doubted that F'lar would go along with the youth's suggestion. Give someone else candidacy? Still, it could be worth trying.

After a long moment of consideration F'lar spoke again. "I suppose we could ask F'lar."

The youth seemed somewhat surprised, although not shocked. "Do you think he'll say yes?"

"He might, but he probably won't," admitted F'nor. "At best, he'll allow it but still detain you, now that you've defeated two dragonmen in open duels."

"Ah. I was afraid of that. Tell me, if there any course of action you'd consider – any at all, that wouldn't result in me going to Benden Weyr? Other than something that results in my death, of course."

F'nor considered it. "I'm sorry, but no. I think you... well, to but it plainly, I don't think you have a choice. Will you at least tell me why you won't go?"

"As I said, that's for me to know." The youth slid his traveler's pack off of his back and onto the ground, and began to massage his shoulders, where the straps had cut into the skin.

"You realize what comes next, of course?" asked the hunter.

"A duel?"

"Yes."

F'nor was frustrated that it had come to this. He wished it hadn't. He could, of course, just ask Canth to snatch the hunter from the ground of clearing, but that might be viewed as dishonorable and inappropriate conduct, given that he had just been challenged to a duel.

"You can't win," said F'nor. "Even if you beat me, there are nine other dragonriders you'd have to duel and win. Just because you defeated D'sen and B'fol, don't think that you can defeat ten of us! Why don't you just come without a fight. It would be much easier on you."

"True," admitted Halen. "But I would find it particularly unsatisfying if I just gave up."

The hunter's hand moved to his belt.

F'nor was quick on the draw. It hadn't been all that long ago when a fellow rider had actually drawn a knife on him. Ever since, F'nor had been acutely aware of the possibility that a rider could be called on to fight not only Thread, riding fall, but also human opponents on the ground.

His hand and arm blurred as he drew his dagger, rehearsing a practiced, yet blindingly fast motion. The hunter drew his weapon in just the same manner: both duelists had their knives drawn in a blink of an eye. F'nor sprang back to assess his opponent, and Canth trumpeted in the background.

Nine shouts and nine roars resounded through the clearing in unison as the rest of the wing charged towards the two combatants. F'nor waved them off. "It's a duel!" he shouted. "It's a duel!" Running men skidded to a halt as R'bas made some frantic hand signals to stay at a distance. Each man had his weapon drawn, but none pierced the invisible border surrounding F'nor and his opponent.

F'nor finally turned his attention from his wing back to the hunter. He hadn't moved. F'nor was expecting a frantic, confused opponent in the duel – should the duel ever even begin. The youth was quite the opposite – calm. Calm, F'nor realized, because he had only certainty. Victory was impossible. The only unknown left in the day was how many dragonmen he would take with him.

The two had about equal height, weight and reach. F'nor guessed that he was probably stronger, and the brown rider had weapon advantage as well. The knife his opponent was holding in his right hand was a short, curved blade – a skinning knife. The inside of the curve was dulled, and only the point and outside edge of the curve was sharpened. Although better than being totally unarmed, a skinning knife was not a weapon of choice for combat.

F'nor briefly wondered about the hunter's empty sheath – R'bas had said that he was carrying a combat knife, a skinning knife, and a bow. The youth had apparently disarmed himself. Why? F'nor could only guess.

The two were circling each other, waiting for the other to strike. After what seemed like an eternity of stalemate, the hunter lashed out with his knife, probing F'nor's guard. F'nor batted it away and charged through the gap in the youth's own defense. His opponent gave ground, parrying F'nor's thrust, and coming around for a slash. F'nor ducked and jumped in again. The hunter punched F'nor in the torso with his free left hand, but F'nor slashed at the youth's head, forcing him to duck. Both combatants jumped.

A red line appeared across the hunter's forehead. The youth drew his hood back, and, disbelieving, drew two fingers across the gash. He tasted the liquid. "First blood," announced the youth.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He gave more and more ground. They had been dueling for several minutes. It was, F'nor reflected, much like a complicated dance. When you made a mistake, you were hurt. And it wasn't only footwork. The fist, elbow, knee, even the head and foot came into the battle, as the two exchanged body blows. F'nor, for whatever reason, clearly had the advantage. Unfortunately, whenever the brown rider tried to disarm his opponent, the youth used his left arm as a guard for his right – he was literally using his free arm as a shield. The hunter had given so much ground... They were now outside of the clearing itself, dancing their deadly dance in the new fallen snow.

Feint, parry, feint, slash, block, parry, riposte, guard... The rhythm, the dance, the weave of combat seemed to be material in the air, literally tangible, like a sixth sense that detected what his opponent was doing – and what the proper counter move was. The battle dragged on – a fight to the death would have been over much sooner, but with both men essentially on the defensive and aiming to disable, not kill, it was elongated. However, F'nor's senses hadn't dulled a bit. The hunter was panting hard in slow, deliberate breaths; he was tiring. The youth's reactions were slowing.

_He is used to fighting mountain beasts_, Canth informed his rider indifferently. _He is not used to a prolonged duel with a skilled opponent._ The wingleader hadn't thought of that. Interesting observation, on the dragon's part. F'nor quickly glanced upwards at the brown dragon, silhouette easily visible through the sparse cover of the trees. Canth, body outlined against the noonday sun, was marking the current location of the duel, which had allowed the other riders to move off slightly. In the first moments of the battle, it had quickly become clear that the two weren't go to stay confined to a ring, or any region, for that matter. The riders had moved off. They were here in the forest, but out of the immediate combat zone.

F'nor feinted and stabbed, and felt his belt knife beaten off by the youth's skinning knife. The hunter leaped back, boot scraping through the snow to the rocky ground, and fell to one knee. He was spent. He rested his right arm, knife in hand, across his elevated right leg, and head hanging, began to gasp. This battle was over. F'nor began to slowly and cautiously close the gap between them, guard still up. The youth raised his head and looked F'nor straight in the eyes. The brown rider could see the exhaustion in them, and previously prominent boyishness in his face seemed to have disappeared. If F'nor hadn't known better, he would have said that the candidate had aged ten turns.

Their gazes still locked, F'nor continued his slow trek forward. The youth lowered his head again, shook it as if to clear it, and brought his head back up. The hunter met F'nor's own eyes once more, but his gazed slipped from F'nor to the ground behind him, as if he were distracted. He stared blankly past F'nor, at the snow-covered ground. The Searching wingleader closed the few steps to melee range, about to demand the boy's surrender.

The hunter drew a deep breath and leaped from his half-crouch. With a shriek, he launched himself, knife in hand, at the brown rider, battle cry reverberating throughout the forest. F'nor instantly leaped back, only to meet a solid wall of feints and swings, forcing him back. This was the boy's last gasp, F'nor knew. The brown rider gave ground, staying just out of the teen's reach, counting the seconds. F'nor retreated under the flurry of thrusts and stabs, retreated, until finally, after what seemed like minutes, the offensive died down. The dragonman hadn't even been scratched.

This battle was truly over now. The boy stumbled, exhausted by his exertion. His body seemed to sway, his muscles unable to even keep him steady. The battle cry faded. F'nor tried to grab the hunter's right wrist, hoping to disarm him...

With a speed the brown rider would have thought impossible for someone in his condition, the youth lashed out with his right arm, skinning knife still in hand. The stroke was badly aimed, but F'nor, surprised, leaped backward. Pained erupted in the heel of his left foot and spread throughout his leg, and the wingleader stumbled backwards.

The hunter was on him in a second. With a shout of triumph, the youth flung himself at F'nor and grappled him. As he hurled F'nor to the ground, the brown rider slashed his belt knife through the leather armor of the hunter's forearm and raked through his skin. However, the candidate didn't seem to mind or even care. He was entirely concentrated on F'nor. As he hit the ground, with the youth seemingly intent on using his fists to rearrange F'nor's facial features, the brown rider finally understood. It all fit.

Dragons, especially Canth, were very good at telling which young men and women would be suitable candidates for a Hatching and Impression on the principle that dragons knew what other dragons looked for. They were rarely wrong. However, their human companions had no such instinct or insight into draconic behavior. Time after time, hatching after hatching, theorists were left scratching their heads as the most unlikely pairs – partners for then and forever – walked out of the hatching ground. It was almost a matter of personal preference on the part of the hatchlings.

However, there were those who would Impress – there was no two ways about it. Lessa and Brekke, for example had each been destined from the moment they were born to Impress; they could hear dragons! (Even if Brekke, F'nor's own mate, had lost her golden Wirenth, she had still Impressed at her first hatching) Those two were, of course, extreme examples, but in both cases there had been a subtle residue, some kind of presence of that power. Ruatha, despite Fax's six other flourishing holds, had crumbled under Lessa's careful attentions, and Brekke's farming crafthold had, in many ways, taken on the characteristics of her personality.

Searching dragonriders were told to look for such subtle differences, to notice that aura of a strong personality – for those people, in the Weyrs of Pern, could help the world around them in ways that they could only dream of in Hold and Hall. F'nor cursed himself for not seeing it earlier.

The change hadn't been subtle. It had been suprisingly overt. But, then the world did change around such people. In the Igen Caverns, and other holdless settlements, the attitude was strictly depressed, accompanied by a feeling of insecurity and self-pity. Here... Here in Salt's Clearing, the general attitude was so different it was unbelievable. Optimistic, extremely prideful, brave, almost an exact contrast from the other settlements. Now, the relative safety from the Thread was definitely the largest contributing factor. But there was also a surging pride, skill, and strength in the air that F'nor knew was from the hunting community. And this boy was a hunter.

As a the youth struck a blow to F'nor's right temple, the brown rider felt a feeling of relief and content. He understood. The environment here definitely cultivated the boy's sense of independence. The dragonman didn't realize he had stopped resisting. He didn't care. The hunter wouldn't win his next duel. Canth had long since bespoken Ramoth and Mnementh at Benden Weyr and explained the situation, but Benden should know about this. This young man wasn't a fifth as strong as even Lessa had been, but he could be a great boon too the...

A fist connected with F'nor's jaw, sending a pulsing ringing through F'nor's head. The knockout blow took full effect, and the rider plunged into darkness.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Halen, extremely slowly, moved from his half-crouch to a full standing position. It had been eerie; being so close the legendary rider, Halen had seen the minute and faded scars of Threadscore, battles long past, and even the burns from F'nor's epic trip to the Red Star. Halen grimaced in pain and sheathed his knife, glancing back at the belt knife still in F'nor's unconscious hands. Halen's victory had been luck, and Halen knew it. Still, he hadn't escaped unscathed. The rider had injured Halen's left forearm. Although the blade had sunk only about a third of an inch into Halen's arm, the pain cut through the hunter's daze as effectively as any knife blade.

Halen swayed on his feet as reached for his pack and medical supplies, and swore loudly as he remembered he had left it leaning against the tavern in the Clearing. Halen sat, and, cradling his left arm with his right, surveyed the surrounding trees.

The hunter was in no condition to fight another battle. His vision was swimming with the combined exertion, fatigue, and pain. It was too bad he'd had to fight F'nor – there had been something about him that Halen had liked. Not the diplomacy (although the rider had admittedly done that part well), but F'nor had a kind of aura of amicability, trustworthiness, and general charisma about him. Halen's vision was blurring and fading.

Pure luck. Thread-bared, damned luck. F'nor was his better. He had been spent, kneeling from exhaustion, almost ready to give up, when, out of the corner of his eye, he'd seen something glint in the sunlight. A caltrop!

Hunting caltrops (not quite the vicious, four pronged spike that soldiers used), were used to slow down charging animals. They were simply a metal spike in the ground, about a half-hand in length, that injured the foot when stepped upon. Hunters often layed them in rough groups of about twenty, killed their quarry, and collected the iron caltrops again. Very handy, although Halen didn't quite believe in them. His father had never used them.

In any event, on hunter had not been thorough in recovering his used caltrops. One had, prong sticking up through the snow, proved the deciding element of the battle. Calling up his last reserves of strength, Halen had maneuvered F'nor into stepping on one. It hadn't gone in very deeply, perhaps a quarter of an inch through the boot, but it had been enough. Halen's last flurry of blows had been powered off of raw hatred alone. He had nothing left.

The hunter closed his eyes to stop the world from spinning. Canth wasn't bugling, for some reason. He had been circling just above them. What had happened? Halen drew out his first waterskin and took a long draft, spilling much of the water in the process. He shakily capped it slung it back over his shoulder. He would have prefered the _klah_ in his second skin, but that was in the bag, which was still in the clearing. Halen heard footsteps but didn't open his eyes. He was too exhausted. His head hurt. Maybe if he...

Coherent thought failed Halen as consciousness left him entirely, and he plunged deep into a dead faint.

/ Yea old Cliffhanger. That was much more spaced out, over the course of about 3 weeks. I hope that its a little better written than my previous chapter, and a little easier to understand. All men have their limits. Once again, please tell me what you think, and I encourage everyone to submit possible plot ideas. Thanks in advance.

Until next time, The ACS Dude /


	4. Chapter 3: The Prisoner

./ Author's Comments:

The fourth installment! Before I begin, I'd really like to encourage everyone to review after reading – so far I've been getting differing opinions and mixed messages about the story. I've started reading The Skies of Pern, but I'm far from the end. I've also started reading the other stories in the Anne McCaffery, and many are very interesting. (Yes, before this week, I had never read another Anne McCaffery fanfiction.) I've also got to say that I had an exceptionally hard time coming up with a title for this chapter.

Once again, constructive criticism, suggestions for the course of the story, or just letting me that you're enjoying/not enjoying the story are much appreciated. Thank you in advance.

One last thing: Please recall that the time system goes (Years . Months. Days). (To avoid confusion)

Please note that this chapter was updated once on August 16 because I just realized that the dividing lines between my POVs were for some reason eliminated during the upload. Sorry to those who read the chapter before this update and were confused.

Chapter Information:

Drafting Began: 2:58:06 PM (GMT), August 10, 2006

Drafting Ended: 7:38:20 PM (GMT), August 15, 2006

Uploaded: 7:50:33 PM (GMT), August 15, 2006

The Rogue of Pern

Chapter 3: The Prisoner

Benden Weyr

Present Pass, 16.1.14

Late Afternoon (Benden Time)

Thread wasn't due to Fall for another four whole days in the territory protected by Benden Weyr, and hadn't Fallen for the past four days. It was a rare lapse in the relentless assault of the parasite, and the perfect time for Search. Wing, each of a dozen or so, had been sent out in all directions save east, to every major and minor Hold on Pern, looking for candidates for this next hatching. Fourty-six eggs! A huge clutch by anyone's standards. Although Faranth was recorded to have clutched sixty, this hatching would almost be the largest since. Although there was no golden queen egg among the mottled shells, the whole Weyr was ablaze with talk about the clutch. Rumors and speculation consumed conversation, about who would impress, how many dragons of which colors, how many candidates would be brought in... As it always was.

Personally, F'lar hadn't relaxed one bit during the eight day respite from the deadly Thread; he had to deal with Lessa and golden Ramoth. Only a lone turn ago, a queen egg had been stolen straight from the Benden hatching ground. That had been a frightening couple of days – Lord Holders, Mastercraftsmen, other Weyrleaders (not to mention Ramoth and Lessa), assigning blame, pointing fingers, demanding justice. The watchdragon had been chewing firestone, and there had been talk of dragon fighting dragon. Pern on the brink of a devastating war among dragons.

It was a turn later, true, and the Oldtimers had been effectively dealt with, but Ramoth was still unsettled. F'lar was concerned that she wouldn't allow the candidates on the hatching ground, as she nearly hadn't a turn ago. That seemed the major problem. After all, what else could happen?

It had been about noon when Mnementh had told F'lar that F'nor's wing, currently Searching around Bitra, had run into a problem with one of the candidates – what exactly, Canth hadn't told Mnementh. It was perhaps ten minutes that Canth had bespoken Mnementh and informed the bronze that D'sen and B'fol were unconscious and were being returned to the Weyr by their dragons. Green Gereth and blue Sayth appeared above Weyr, their riders strapped tightly to their backs.

D'sen and B'fol had been rushed to the Weyr infirmary – their injuries unexplained. Neither Mnementh nor Ramoth could get any more information out of Canth. Lessa was, at this point, very worried about F'nor and his wing. Although F'lar hadn't voiced his concerns (as he'd been trying to calm Lessa; the last thing they needed was more worry), he privately wondered how and why this had happened. A problem with one of the candidates? What had happened? Riders tried to avoid conflict on Search. What had...

As F'lar had been examining the already-dressed wounds, Mnementh calmly informed F'lar that F'nor was unconscious, but that "_the problem has been resolved." _F'lar and Lessa had stared at each other momentarily before running out to meet the returning wing.

Four dragons, not the whole wing, appeared above Benden Weyr. Among then was Canth, carrying F'nor, and R'bas, F'nor's acting wingsecond. F'nor had been rushed to the infirmary while R'bas had introduced Gyron, a young boy that they had Searched about an hour before, in a small clearing north of Bitra. R'bas seemed remarkably calm and hadn't immediately talked about F'nor, D'sen, or B'fol. Then, just as Gyron, beaming, ran off to pick an alcove to stay in, the last six dragons had materialized in the sky.

Every other rider had returned safely, and G'lan had brought another person back with him. R'bas explained everything as the tall, stout, and unconscious hunter had been unloaded from the back of a dragon. F'lar could only listen in shocked silence.

Now, an hour later, F'lar, R'bas, Lessa, and the revived F'nor and B'fol sat around a conference table, discussing the bizarre events. B'fol had been called in to shed some light on what exactly had happened – why precisely the youth had responded the way he had. As the green rider finished his tale, F'lar was only half listening. Why had all of this happened? What could possibly have been the boy's motive? B'fol finished detailing the battle and F'lar cut in. "Thank you, B'fol. Most enlightening. Please return to the infirmary so they can give you one more examination, to make sure that you're fine. Then, get some rest. You'll need it." B'fol opened his mouth, perhaps to object, perhaps to add one last note to his tale, but thought the better of it. Gereth's rider turned and left the room.

As soon as the door closed behind him, F'nor spoke up.

"Well, not to discredit B'fol, but when I fought the hunter, he was hardly armed with the wherry skewer that B'fol made out his weapon to be. R'bas, did you, by chance, pick up...?"

R'bas drew a small, curved weapon out of a pouch in his belt and dropped it nonchalantly onto the table. F'lar picked up the weapon and examined it.

"This? This is a skinning knife. Hardly adequate for dueling."

"He used it; I'd swear on the shell of my dragon. And won, if by sheer luck." F'nor had woken up within an hour. He had taken a knockout blow to the jaw. Other than that, the only injury on his body was the caltrop wound on the bottom of his right foot. According to F'nor, the caltrop had been the deciding element in the duel.

"Yes," R'bas interjected, "but this is not how he defeated D'sen and B'fol. Given, neither is likely to win a dueling title any time soon, but I doubt that he could have beaten the two of them with a skinning knife. And let's not forget D'sen's wounds." D'sen, who had yet to regain consciousness, had several clear knife wounds. Wounds a curved, blunt knife wouldn't have produced.

"Did you see his other sheath?" F'nor inquired. "That might have housed a knife like the one B'fol described. It was empty when I arrived."

Lessa broke in, "But if that's true, then what did he do with this other knife?"

"He might have stowed it away or hidden it to prevent capture," started F'lar. "He knew he would lose in the end."

"Or it could be in here," said R'bas quietly. He unslung a pack from his shoulder and lowered it onto the conference table. F'lar started. He hadn't noticed that R'bas had been carrying it. "I grabbed it as we were leaving. It's his pack."

The traveler's pack was a large, plain, leather pack with a flap covering a lone opening, tied shut. Lessa reached over and deftly undid the knot, pulled the pack over, and examined the contents. She started removing items.

"A coil of rope." She threw out a coil of about 50 feet. "Flint. Tinder. Pestle and mortar. A stone. What's this?" She removed a small, wooden, box, about a hand and a half long, from the pack. It was not decorated, made from old and graying wood. The lid was held by bronze hinges and held closed by a latch, but there was no lock. There were no markings of any kind. Lessa threw the latch.

Lessa removed a yet smaller wooden pot, unmarked. She removed the lid, and inside was a green-tinged, but mostly colorless mush. She smelled the contents. "Numbweed," she announced, and handed the pot to F'nor. "This is healer's kit. Fellis, bandages, healing salve... What's this? It can't be a weapon..." The weyrwoman removed a small blade from the kit. The blade was flat, not sharpened at the end, and seemed to flip back into the handle. As Lessa examined it curiously, F'nor began to chuckle. She glared at him accusingly. "What?" "I do believe that that is a razor, Lessa," responded the brown rider.

F'lar began to chuckle as well and took the box from Lessa. "What other wonders lie inside this box of mysteries." The weyrleader removed that last two items from the case – a needle and thin linen thread, the needle already threaded. "Does he do much sewing?" Lessa asked sarcastically. F'lar also looked at the needle, puzzled, until the obvious answer struck him. "They're for stitching. If he or another hunter was seriously wounded, they might not have enough time to get the wounded back to the local healer. They'd need to give stitches on site..." he trailed off.

F'lar replaced the contents of the Healer's kit as Lessa continued to rummage through the pack. "A spare hood. A waterskin. Say didn't he another waterskin?" R'bas responded: "Yes, he did. It was just water." The wingsecond shrugged. "Were we expecting poison?"

"No," admitted Lessa as she unsealed the spigot and smelled the drink. "_Klah_. Reasonably fresh." She resealed the spout and put the skin down. "Some cloth. Trail rations. Nothing else. This is all innocuous. So where did he put his weapon?"

"According to B'fol, he also had a bow and quiver. He must have hidden them somewhere during his absence between the two battles," remarked R'bas. There was a collective nod of agreement.

"What about his motive?" F'lar finally brought up what had been troubling him most. What would drive anyone to do this?

"I've been wondering the same thing," said F'nor. "But I can't think of a reason."

"Hatred, anger, or fear," said R'bas.

"What could drive anyone to this extreme, though?" inquired Lessa. "This would be considered the blackest of heresy in any Hold."

"How did his parents die?" asked F'nor. The room fell silent. F'lar realized that his half brother might pinpointed it. The brown rider continued. "That might be why."

"Any other possibilities?" asked F'lar. No responses. "We he comes to, I'm afraid we're going to have to have a good, long talk with him, whenever he wakes up. There are other things we know, also. Like what his name is. We have many questions. It shouldn't be too long. He fainted from exertion and exhaustion, but he should be awake tomorrow."

"Is he going to stand at hatching?" asked Lessa.

"Yes," responded F'lar immediately. "If and when he Impresses, his reservations will disappear. When a man and a dragon are paired..." F'lar trailed off, memory sliding back to his own Impression. R'bas broke in. "And if he doesn't Impress, he can go back to his sharding clearing. Either way, he'll end up fine. Still, the eggs are still hardening. One or two days before hatching, I think."

"How," began F'nor, uncharacteristically quietly, "are we going to get him to stand at hatching?"A long, almost painful silence ensued until F'lar broke in. "I don't know. Clearly, simply shouting at him to comply isn't going to work. We're going to have to work around his problems and reservations. Show him reason, in the end. Really though, if it comes to dragging him onto the hatching ground, we'll have to."

"Why not just let him go?" F'nor asked. "He doesn't want to be here, and all we're doing is fanning the flames by keeping him here forcefully. He won't do anything we ask him too anyway."

F'lar looked at his half brother. "He's too strong to let go," F'lar said at last. "Personally, I'd like to be able to let him go. But I don't have that luxury. It's the Weyr's right to Search, and whether he likes it or not, he was Searched. It's not him in particular really. It's just that, after this Pass..." F'lar's mind slipped back to his old promise to the Lord Holders. A promise that the scars on F'nor's cheeks from the dastardly Red Star stood witness to. A promise that F'lar would fulfill.

"I'm sorry F'nor. I feel the same way you do. This doesn't feel right, but I feel that's it's what we have to do. We can't afford to set a precedent like this. My apologies. I just hope I'm right."

There was silence all around the table, and F'lar realized that everyone was wondering what was on his mind. "F'nor, you should get some rest. R'bas, make sure all of the candidate's possessions find his way back to him, except the knife. Find out from the infirmary where he was quartered. And see to it that his door is locked from the outside. I... I need some time to think."

Without a word to anyone, even Lessa, F'lar stood, turned on his heel, and left. Shells! He hoped he was right. Because if he was wrong...

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Incoherent thoughts, partial phrases, tunes, words, memories, swirled around in Halen's fractured mind. The world seemed blurry. It was very dark. Was it night? Where was he? Who was he? What was he doing... THE WEYR!

Halen sat upright an immediately wished that he hadn't. Any trace of confusion and inconsistency disappeared from his mind and was replaced with pure, sharp pain. He sunk back down onto the bed and tried to concentrate. The bed? What? With an effort, Halen tilted his head to one side. He was on a bed, clearly on top of the furs, still fully clothed. He had no doubt been dumped here by the riders after he passed out in Salt's Clearing.

Halen sat up slowly and deliberately. He was still wearing his boots. So, his captors hadn't been too ceremonious in bringing him here. Where in Benden Weyr was he? Four stone walls, a stone floor, and a stone ceiling. That was familiar enough. For Halen, who had lived out most of his life in a cave, rock was as familiar as blinking. Still, the straightness of the walls, if clearly hand-hewn, was somewhat... unnatural. There was a small square window, about as wide as his forearm in on corner. That was unusual, wasn't it? Weren't most of Benden Weyr's rooms deep within the mountain? Was this a candidate's... Shells! What was the word? Accommodation? No... Alcove! That was it. Was this a candidate's alcove? It looked like it.

There was a plain wooden chest, a small desk, a door... Ah, the luxury of hinged doors. They had number at Salt's, but only in the stone-roofed buildings in the heart of the Clearing. Like in "Drinks and Lodging", the Salt's Clearing Inn and Tavern. Still, Halen was willing to bet that they had doors all over the Weyr, all hinged. Handles too. Speaking of which...

Halen rose to open the door, and instantly fell back onto the bed. The pain had been overwhelming. What was wrong with him? He hadn't injured his foot! F'nor had, though. Halen grinned maliciously at the memory. That might keep him off of his feet for a while. But the cut hadn't been deep. F'nor had cut Halen's left arm in retribution, but...

The hunter looked down at his left arm, as though seeing it clearly for the first time. It was wrapped in a loose linen bandage. The cut hadn't been too deep. With any luck... Halen realized that he couldn't put weight on the arm. Shards, shells, and damnation! Using his right arm to prop himself up, Halen slowly rose to his feet, and nearly passed out from the pain. Somehow though, he managed to keep his feet. Why was it hurting so much?

Cradling his left arm in his right, Halen tried to cross through the poorly illuminated room to the door opposite the window. He paced himself, walking slowly and deliberately, looking at the floor to make sure that there was nothing he might accidentally step on and set him off balance. It seemed to be full night. The feeble lighting provided by Pern's twin moons gave the room a haunted, eerie look, and made the distance from bed to door seem larger than it actually was.

After what must have been two minutes of careful locomotor movement, Halen of Salt's Clearing reached the door and pushed outwards with his shoulder to open it. The hunter immediately regretted his continued folly. Pain shot through his left shoulder as he brushed his wound against the wooden door. And not only that, but for all his efforts, it didn't open. The door clearly caught against something, probably a bolt or a bar. There were no visible obstructions on Halen's side, so he could only assume that it was locked for without, and not from within.

Halen took a few slow steps backwards and sunk into the chair nearby the small desk. Even if it had been unlocked, what was he expecting to do? He didn't feel tired, but he was wounded and bruised in several places. He doubted he could have escaped Benden Weyr in his current condition. The youth shuddered from his exertions and the realization of the futility of his efforts. All he had was his combat dagger, which he could feel still off-balancing one foot.

Speaking of which... Halen moved his right arm slowly down to his boots, intending to recover the dagger, when something beneath the desk caught his eye. Had they...? They wouldn't have... But there was no mistaking the dark leather, the worn strap – it was his pack.

He dragged out the bag from beneath the him, and, using his right arm, hoisted it onto the desk and checked the contents. They had left every last item in the bag, even the razor. They had even placed his primary waterskin, which he had previously had slung over his shoulder, back with the other one. Of course, everything inside the bag itself was almost totally useless. Still, it was somehow comforting to Halen to know that he had something so familiar nearby.

The youth took out the secondary waterskin and took a long draft of the contents. The _klah_ although cold, still hadn't soured and was fresh enough so that Halen didn't complain. Who would he have complained to, anyway? Halen had one and only one advantage over his captors (he thought of the Weyr as captors, of course), and that was the combat knife. They'd have to reckon with his steel before the hatching, however far off that might be.

Slinging the skin over one shoulder, the hunter pulled his chair up to the window and sat again. The two moons were still high in the night sky. The barren mountains, snow-capped, extended as far as he could see from the window. He couldn't see the Bowl, the Benden Weyr Pass, or the Eastern Ocean, so he must be facing either the north or the south. That wasn't much help. Penet probably wouldn't set out until morning; he needed time to gather supplies. Then... well, he would only take four hours off of travel to sleep. It was incredible how much territory a man could cover if he put his mind to it. Given the terrain, it wouldn't make a difference if he had a runner beast or not – either way, it would take roughly a day and a half at full speed. Penet would get to Benden River, through Fog, Fall, and Fire. Hatching had to occur before then.

The air was oddly still. There didn't seem to be much of a breeze. Perhaps the wind couldn't easily reach him, shielded by a stone wall. This alcove was different from the drafty cave he had left behind. It was cold; that was the same, but that was only to be expected in the early months. Perhaps it was different in Southern, but here, so close to his home, the weather was the same. But the view was so... bleak. Halen was used to greenery, but the mountains in front of him were desolate and empty. So very empty. Nothing but snow and rock.

Involuntarily, Halen's thoughts slid back to the nameless river, in front of the cave, where he had taught himself how to swim. How beautiful it had been there! During the late and early months it was too cold to swim, but during the warmer middle season, he would swim and swim, not a care in the world. He'd spent some days fishing in that river too, sometimes with Penet. It had been so peaceful and quiet.

Halen swung his fist into the wall. Shards, shells, and damnation! Damn Benden Weyr for dragging him away! He hadn't always been at Salt's Clearing, true, but if the Weyr had its way, he might never see his home again. Damn them! He punched the wall again, ignoring the protests of his body; ignoring the pain in his right hand. He punched the hard, unyielding stone again and again, each time more forcefully, as if his mere fist could shatter the barrier. Hatred welled up, stored and cultivated deeply in his mind and soul. He had hated the Weyr and all others before, but now, now they would feel his wrath. They had dragged him away from Salt's Clearing. From his own home and hearth. From his only friend. From everything he had ever known.

He pressed both hands against the wall and threw his head against it, making no sound, but inwardly howling like a demon. He was startled when he felt a trickle of warm liquid streaming down his face. He instinctively wet his fingers with it, to check to see if it was blood. Had he reopened his forehead wound? Shells! He put his fingers to his lips, and was surprised to taste salt rather than copper. He was crying.

The night was cold, true, but he was used to the cold. The frozen nights of late and early months wouldn't cause him to shake as he did now. Halen shook with sorrow, rage, and hatred. There would be reckoning. The Weyr would pay. Maybe not today, and maybe not tomorrow, but some day, there would be reckoning.

Halen drew his cloak tightly around himself, still looking out the window. He shook and shivered with the extreme emotions that were raging through him. Tears of sorrow and hate flowed freely down his cheeks. The only thing stabilizing him was the knowledge that in the coming days, there were only two possibilities for his future. Either he would escape the Weyr, or the hatching would begin before he had opportunity and he would kill himself. But, until the moment the first shell of the first dragon of this hatching cracked, he, Halen, would continue fighting.

And there, in the east, was the cause of it all. A infinitely small point of red light, lost in a sea of its brethren. One tiny pinprick that wreaked so much havoc on the world. The cause for the Weyrs to exist. The Red Star. Well, damn it too. Damn everything! One point of light, no larger than a pin, responsible for so much suffering. A star. The night sky was peaceful. The sky was so full of stars.

Involuntarily, Halen's hand reached up and pulled his medallion, hanging around its neck, from its resting place beneath his tunic. He stroked the metal disk. Also, somehow comforting. He would win, in the end. He was sure of it.

He took another draft of _klah_, and, still sitting in the chair before the window, began plotting not only his escape, but all of the terrible pains that the men who had done this to him would suffer before the end. An old harper's song, the words to which he couldn't quite remember, weaved through his thoughts. Appropriate accompaniment to his plans. The Weyr had made an enemy this day. It wasn't long at all before sleep overcame Halen, but his tears continued to flow freely.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

16.1.15

Midday (Benden Time)

It was just before noon in the Weyr. The eggs were still hardening on the baking hatching ground sands; it would be a day or two yet. After a good meal and a restful nights sleep, F'nor felt better than ever. The morning had been quite eventful, what with candidates flooding in from every point on Pern. Although each Weyr had first pick of candidates in its own territory, every Weyr had leave to Search throughout Pern. It was always thrilling to hear that candidates were coming in from as far away as Tillek! Hatching in a few days. Even if there wasn't a queen egg in the clutch, it was still as exciting as always. Although F'nor had seen two dozen hatchings in his time, and would no doubt see many more, nothing ever compared to the event.

At present, the candidates were getting settled in. Every wing had returned from all around Pern. As morning slowly became midday, F'lar had asked F'nor to accompany him to speak with the reluctant candidate that they had Searched just the previous day. Just the three of them – no one else. They needed to have a long and serious conversation. Weapons would be unnecessary: useless in their hands and dangerous in his. The two riders had disarmed themselves, forgoing even belt knives during the conversation, and set out to the hunter's alcove.

Rumors had erupted about the candidate over night. At least one of F'nor's men had decided to reveal the little secret, because ever seemingly tall tale that F'nor had heard had almost been true. D'sen and B'fol's reputations had taken the most damage, but, oddly F'nor's had not. F'nor had been in the dining hall last night when he had heard a number of riders ridiculing B'fol for his incompetence. F'nor had almost lost his temper, and had ordered the men to cease and desist. He'd met with immediate compliance and responses of "Yes, Wingleader, our apologies." F'nor hadn't liked the sound of "Wingleader". The double bars didn't suit him.

Three riders defeated by a holdless hunter. Most embarrassing for the dragonmen. But D'sen seemed to, even more than B'fol, have been regarded as the faulty party in the incident. Rumor had it that D'sen's lack of diplomacy had started the quarrel, and then his continued lack of tact and poor leadership had resulted in not only his defeat, but that of B'fol. Not that D'sen cared. He hadn't heard any of this. He had just woken up this morning and hadn't yet been released from the custody of the infirmary.

Now, F'lar and F'nor, after several minutes of walking together wordlessly, reached what must have been the candidate's alcove. It was a room on the bare exterior of the mountain, far removed from the other candidate's rooms. But that wasn't what made it stand out. The door, which opened to the outside, was blocked by a large, wooden, locking bar. The corridor would have been empty and unremarkable were it not for the barricaded door.

F'lar started lifting the heavy bar, and F'nor moved to assist him. Together, the two brothers heaved the wooden plank upwards, out of the locked position, and set it down to one side of the door. "I didn't post a guard," F'lar explained, "because it was unnecessary. He couldn't have gotten through the door. Furthermore, guards just would have given rise to more rumors. Even if I had taken them from your Search wing, someone would have wondered what they were doing." F'nor nodded. There was no need to throw more fuel on the fire. F'lar pulled outwards on the door's handhold, and it swung outward.

F'nor entered first, followed by F'lar, who closed the door behind himself. The small room, looked much the same – the drab stone, few furnishings, except that the chair had been pulled up to the window. Although it was facing away from the door, it did so at an angle, so F'nor could clearly see the candidate seated there, staring out the window and into the sky. He didn't seem to have noticed or acknowledged their entrance. He was still wearing his armor, cut in several places, with his cloak draped over him, like a blanket. The one eye that F'nor could see was red and bloodshot, and his cheeks seemed somehow stained, as if he had been crying. In any case, the boy didn't seem in the mood for a fight.

Although the youth didn't turn his head, that one, bloodshot eye slid to look back at F'nor, and the rider was suddenly ludicrously reminded of the Red Star. "It's cold this high up and this far north. Especially during the early months." The hunter's voice had quivered with each syllable, his tone shaking with something that F'nor couldn't identify. Not hate, but perhaps sorrow.

"Apparently far too cold for your tastes, given the how fiercely you fought as we tried to transport you here." F'nor heard himself say it – trying to lighten the mood, but it seemed detached somehow. The brown rider's attention was on the youth's face. F'lar, too, seemed to be watching the hunter intently.

The barest hint of a smile crossed the boy's face. The chair creaked as the boy turned it to face them. As he reseated himself, he reached up to a small metal disk hanging around his neck and began fingering it in his right hand. "I wish could offer you a place to sit, but, as you can no doubt tell, my resources are rather limited." He paused to look at the two men, eyes flitting from one man's face to the other.

"Wingleader F'nor," (F'nor winced as the hunter said "Wingleader" ) "I've met before. Judging from the similarities in your appearances, I'd say that you," he gestured F'lar, "is none other than Weyrleader F'lar of Benden, and indeed, man of all Pern. A less petty man than myself would be honored. And to answer you statement, Dragonman F'nor, no, it is not the cold that caused me to fight you and your Searchers with sure ferocity. But I'm sure two such prominent men didn't come here to make small talk. Weyrleader, Wingleader," (F'nor winced again) "why are you here?"

F'lar, for the first time since they had entered the room, answered his query. "We are here, candidate," (the hunter seemed to wince at the reference) "to try and determine why you seem to hate the Weyr. You are a candidate now, whether you like it or not. Clearly, you seem to have chosen 'not' where any other boy on Pern would have chosen otherwise." "I myself pointed that out earlier," murmured the youth. F'lar glanced at his F'nor, who nodded. F'nor had told the Wingleader during the review of the situation. Had he forgotten?

F'lar continued. "I'm here because I want to settle whatever differences lay between you and the Weyr." The Weyrleader, seemingly finished with his speech, paused to allow the candidate to respond, but he said nothing. F'nor glanced at F'lar, and although neither said anything, they both understood that the hunter would only respond to a direct question, if he was going to respond at all.

"Who are you?" F'lar began.

"I am a hunter of Salt's Clearing, and, as of yesterday, an active enemy of the Weyr, or perhaps Weyrs."

"But what is your name?" Not a promising beginning.

"That is not information I will give you. It is neither relevant nor important. Understand that I see myself as your prisoner, and not your guest. I could as easily give you a false, invented name as the true name that my mother gave me. It doesn't matter. My name will not aid you in your interrogation."

F'lar glanced at F'nor, who shrugged. What were they going to do about it? He was right that he could as easily give them a fake name as a real one. This was truly not a promising beginning, so F'nor interjected.

"How did your parents die?" That was the question that they had invented during their meeting about the candidate's case.

To F'nor's amazement, the youth threw his head back and laughed. When his spontaneous outburst came to a close, he looked straight at F'nor and said: "I can see what you are thinking, and I can see how you might think that. My mother died of exposure and disease, while my father met his end drowning. Make no mistake, if one of parents had died by some fault of the Weyrs, to compound my other gripes, I would have aimed to kill, not disable, yesterday."

F'lar broke in. "You said that you were an enemy of the Weyrs. Why?"

"As of yesterday, yes. Now, think carefully. What happened yesterday?" He was mocking them. "You dragged me away from my home and hearth. That was the final nail in the coffin, as it were."

F'nor was frustrated. "But why did you dislike the Weyrs in the first place?" said the brown rider, with more force that he originally intended. The hunter turned to look at F'nor. He stared at him for a long moment before saying, "As I said yesterday, dragonman, that is for me to know."

This wasn't going anywhere. F'nor's half-brother was apparently thinking the same thing. F'lar pushed the door ajar, as it to leave. Before he left, however, he turned to the hunter, looking him straight in the eye.

"Will you stand at hatching?" asked the Weyrleader.

"Not unless forced."

"Will you at least leave and mingle with the other candidates, or at least try to be sociable?"

"Not on the shell of your dragon."

"Very well." F'lar held the door ajar for F'nor, who stepped deftly out of the door. F'lar was about to follow when the candidate spoke once more.

"How much longer until hatching, Weyrleader?"

F'lar paused and turned to look at the hunter. "Not today. One or two days, I'd say. Eggs are still hardening."

"Then, Weyrleader, if am to be held captive for several days to come, I would like at least one meal."

F'nor and F'lar once again looked at each other as they realized that this candidate hadn't been fed. F'nor had just eaten breakfast not three hours ago, and the candidates had been sitting... How had it slipped his mind? F'lar said nothing, but closed the door and heaved the locking bar back into place.

"We're none the wiser," commented F'nor as F'lar stepped back from the re-blocked passage.

"It would seem so. We weren't going to get anything of significance out of him."

"I thought we were going to work around his reservations."

"Not if he won't tell us what they are!"

"I suppose you're right, Weyrleader."

"What would you do next, F'nor?"

"Other than give him some lunch?" F'nor looked F'lar straight in the eye, and said seriously, "F'lar, I would have let him go. But it seems that you see something I don't."

"The Weyr always needs young, strong leaders. If he Impresses, which I am starting to doubt, he'll come around. Mostly, though, its a precedent that I don't want to set. It's a hard question, F'nor."

F'nor nodded thoughtfully. A precedent he didn't want to set. It made sense. If F'lar had his way, this would be the last pass. The scars that F'nor bore from a previous experiment might hinder F'lar, but it wouldn't stop him. There were still the grubs, for example. F'lar would see it done in their time, or at least before the next Pass. And if he did, then something like this... It wasn't the individual, like this hunter, F'nor realized, that F'lar was worried about. It was the Lord Holders, perhaps. F'nor couldn't follow F'lar's thoughts exactly, but he got the gist of it.

Fewer than twenty turns ago, the Lord Holders had tried to storm Benden Weyr. What would happen twenty turns after dragonkind became redundant and unnecessary. True, it might be a weak point in the Records that a Weyr had once yielded to a holdless man, but... Was this really a time to think of precedents? Had a candidate never been released from his obligation in the past?

"I'll get him some lunch," said F'nor quietly.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Lunch had just been delivered to Halen's room. Wordlessly and quietly, someone had open the door, slipped the tray in, and closed the door again. Halen hadn't moved a muscle during the entire procedure. The Weyrs didn't have much experience with keeping prisoners. They had forgotten to give him food and drink; they might as well have forgotten to lock the door. Halen grabbed a the mug of _klah_ on the tray and began to drink. At least they had remembered to put a chamberpot under the bed. He doubted anyone was coming to change it, though. He'd have to dump it out the window, onto the mountains below. If it works, it works.

Benden Weyr didn't fly Thread over Salt's Clearing, he thought as he fingered his hunter's medallion. No one did. But they still felt that he was somehow beholden to them. Fools! The fact that they didn't fly Thread over Salt's proved what they thought about it. Rocky, useless ground. Trees tall and strong, but good for nothing but firewood. Populated by holdless men. And if one or two of them died during the Fall? Well, that was their own fault, wasn't it? Their own fault for not finding a Hold.

F'lar had every intention of making Halen stand at hatching. One or two days, eh? That wasn't enough time. He couldn't count on Penet being in position until the morning after next. He had to hope that the hatching wouldn't take place for some time yet. Still, there was the all too real possibility that hatching would come before then. If he Impressed... Shells... Halen said quietly to himself. "If I Impress, I swear on my father's grave that F'lar will regret his decision to force me to stand at hatching." That made Halen feel a little better.

He stroked his medallion. Every hunter in Salt's Clearing had one. It was a little like the knots that craftsmen had, except that among hunters, there were no "masters", "apprentices", or "journeymen". You were either a full-time hunter, or you weren't. The medallion comforted Halen somehow. It was still small comfort compared to the thought of the hatching, but comfort all the same. Halen had sworn he would kill himself if hatching came about, but now he doubted his own resolve. He needed an alternative. The youth glanced around his room. His pack? There was nothing in there that could help. He'd already reviewed the contents, and nothing other than the rope could really have helped in his escape.

It seemed so obvious all of a sudden. He was a fool. Of course there was something that could help. Not help him escape, but an acceptable alternative to suicide. He dropped the medallion, letting it come to rest, hanging from its linen loop around his neck. The medallion was a comfort, but now he had something that could aid him more than just psychologically. He had mixing to do.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

D'sen took another long sip of wine, swirling the precious liquid around in his mouth before daring to swallow. He hadn't had single moment free this evening, he could swear. He had just been released from the custody of the infirmary. No bones broken, said the Weyr healers. Some nice bruises, but no bones broken.

Any how, once he had finally been allowed to get back into the Weyr in general, he had seen, or rather heard the problem, at once. The story of how the nameless and holdless hunter had defeated three dragonriders was spreading throughout the Weyr. It been vastly blown out of proportion, and what was worse, everyone seemed to think it was his fault; that his diplomatic error had caused the travesty. He at first tried to explain that it simply wasn't true, but soon gave up. Rumor moved faster than a dragon could fly, and was as strong and potent as the tide. The harpers delighted in spreading, causing, and listening to rumor, but he doubted that even they could stop a rumor.

How could everyone think it was his fault? Okay, he had had made some mistakes in the past. It was true that the last time he had visited Lemos the craftsman that he... "Hey! D'sen I heard that-" "Shut up!" roared D'sen and took another sip of the wine. This was strong, ruddy stuff, this wine. Not normal Benden Hold wine at all. He wondered where it was from.

The rider, who D'sen didn't recognize, recoiled and slunk back to his companions. He was the laughing stock of the whole Weyr. _It is not your fault._ Sayth informed him, calming the blue rider. _ You did all you could. It will pass. _D'sen sent waves of reassurance back. He had to be reasonable. With this reputation! His fellow riders had only made the logical jump. It wasn't their fault at all. He'd surely see that when his temper had waned. And when he was sober. He wasn't yet drunk enough think that he wasn't drunk.

It was that hunter, that damned ungrateful boy who had caused this. He had been given the chance that every boy on Pern dreamed about! Everything he ever could have wanted, elevated from a pathetic holdless hunter to a dragonman! What greater honor! And he had rejected it. The Weyr couldn't take no for an answer, of course. The boy had been taken here. This was his fault. Well, D'sen **_was_** one to hold a grudge. This wasn't a very big one, of course, but if the child somehow escaped, or dodged the Weyr's grasp, D'sen would personally make his life a little more miserable in the dratted clearing. And if he stood at hatching and impressed? Well, he'd arrange to make his training a little harder. Nothing too serious, of course, perhaps duty mixing numbweed, or something along those lines.

D'sen took another sip of the wine. Very strong. Tasted more like something from further east, perhaps from Telgar, where they like wine stronger. He'd have to get some real Benden wine as he brooded.

He had nothing to do for the next four days. Revenge was a good pasttime, even if the matter was petty and the retribution minor. "D'sen!" The blue rider sighed and took another sip of the wine before turned to meet his next verbal assailant.

/ Once again, most was written at once. Please be forewarned, I didn't like this chapter as much as the others, and I had a very hard time figuring out a chapter title. I hope I wrote it well. Please read and review to tell me what you think so far. There are obviously some unanswered questions. What do you think of the plot? I've come up with a basic outline of what is going to happen in the story, so I hope everyone finds this sufficient.

Until next time, The ACS Dude /


	5. Chapter 4: Midnight on the Firing Line

/ Author's Comments:

The fifth chapter in this story. I still haven't finished "The Skies of Pern", but I'm getting there. I'd like to also say that the disclaimer in the first chapter applies to the entire story. I own the characters I came up with.

I'd ask everyone to pay attention to the chapter titles! I spend a good deal of time coming up with them. Note that this chapter is very pivotal in the storyline (at least _I_ think so), and that although the chapter name was taken from _Babylon 5_, I don't believe they own the title. (If they do, then I don't own it, they do.)

Note that "Salt's" is a local abbreviation for "Salt's Clearing." I've used this in previous chapters, but just realized I forgot to tell everyone.

Please review! The stats page lets me how many _views_ I have, but not how much you're enjoying the story, or how much you hate it, or what adjustments you'd like me to make. Not to mention how many people are actually reading the story, and not just casually glancing at the chapter. (Even if that seems unlikely) Thank you in advance for your feedback.

One last thing: Please recall that the time system goes (Years . Months. Days). (To avoid confusion)

NOTICE: When I uploaded the story, the entire thing was in italics (which it was most certainly not during the drafting phase). I think I fixed most of it, but I might have missed something. If random text is in italics, it is because of this problem.

Chapter Information:

Drafting Began: 2:58:06 PM (GMT), August 22, 2006

Drafting Ended: 11:24:55 PM (GMT), September 2, 2006

Uploaded: 11:45:52 PM (GMT), September 2, 2006

The Rogue of Pern

Chapter 4: Midnight on the Firing Line

Benden Weyr

Present Pass, 16.1.15

Morning (Benden Time)

Using the surface of the water as a mirror. Pitiful. Still, for lack of a mirror, what was Halen to do? He'd almost always had to use water for a mirror in Salt's. He hated shaving; he always had, and if he had his way, he always would. Still, unless he wanted a beard and mustache, it was something that had to be done. At least he could limit his shaving to his facial hair.

The last apparent hair fell from his face, severed by the blade of his razor, onto the chair just before the slightly titled basin of water. The hunter examined his face. Halen had cut himself in no less than a dozen places. He swore long and creatively. How he hated shaving!

At least he could have a better razor, Halen mused, as he flipped the blade back into its handle. But a real razor, with a guard, well made and really designed for shaving, probably would have been expensive. He could do without one. Halen had only started shaving last turn, but it bothered him all the same. At least he only had to use the damned thing once every sevenday or two. Halen placed the blade back into its place in his medical kit, carefully hefted the metal basin of water from the chair and onto the floor, and sat down.

This was to be his second full day in Benden Weyr! Hurrah! Anger, hate, sorrow, and many other indescribable emotions surged through Halen, much as they had countless times before in the past two. His only solace was that he wouldn't be here long. At this day's end, he'd break out, in any way that he could. Penet would be waiting for him. And, even failing that, if hatching occurred today, or, if he couldn't break out, he would NOT Impress. All the Weyrleaders, Weyrs, and dragons of this hopeless world of Pern wouldn't change that one, absolute mental edict. Benden Weyr would have his corpse before they had his fealty. But, if his contingency plan worked, it wouldn't quite come to that.

Speaking, or thinking, rather, of the possibility of hatching, when was it going to be? F'lar had said in one or two days. It seemed that even for a Weyrleader, predicting a hatching time wasn't a precise art. Halen allowed himself a grin. F'lar had seemed so similar to F'nor, and, yet, so very different. The family resemblance was apparent in each's hair, face, eyes, stature... Yet, even if he couldn't have for all the world named a major difference between the two, they were different. F'lar and F'nor shared the same fighter's form, but F'lar seemed larger, somehow. Halen couldn't place it. He didn't try to.

The hunter pulled his chair back up to the window. He'd spent a lot of time before this small hole in the wall. Most of it had been at night. But it was morning now; the dark veil of night and its two moons had given way to a bright, new day, a clear sky, and a brilliant sun. All for the better. If everything went according to plan, the next time stared up the twin moons of Pern, he would be in the open air.

A wave of homesickness, longing, and hatred passed over Halen, and he lowered his head from the vision of the brilliant day. As he started to sob, the young hunter reached up and began to stroke his medallion again. Really, the second that D'sen had seen him, this fate had been inevitable. He couldn't have evaded riders mounted adragonback, not during the cold months in the north, not two days run from the nearest Hold. He had known this would happen.

Halen was reminded of the home he had been forced to leave behind. Not the cave he hid in during infrequent threadfalls, his "hold" by the standards of a normal man, no! His true home was all of Salt's Clearing. The youth's thoughts slipped back to the river where he had learned to swim. And the fish he had caught with Penet. And how quiet and peaceful it had seemed on its banks, during the warmer months. And how all of his cares had washed away in the water, as they always had, for his sixteen short turns of life.

For the second time, and still not the last, since his adventure began, Halen wondered, if when all was said and done, he would find peace. He looked back up at the view of the clear sky, and the barren snow-topped peaks. How he missed greenery! Halen couldn't tell if he'd been gazing at the panorama for a minute or for an hour before he heard the bar outside his door slide back.

How odd it was, Halen considered, that the last time he had had visitors, he had been crying. F'lar and F'nor had been his guests that time. The door began to slide open. Who would it be this time? His tears were dry now, and his hatred and rage, ever swirling around in his muddled soul, had exposed themselves. But he was tired of them, too, with nothing to take out his anger upon. He had to save them for later anyway. When they would be truly needed. Halen heard tenuous footfalls as his visitor entered the room. How, Halen wondered, would he react? He hadn't decided yet. He'd simply have to see how things went.

The young hunter turned his head slightly to face his guest. Halen had to admit, of all people, he was surprised to see _him_ occupying the doorway. The youth swiveled his chair a full one hundred and eighty degrees to face and properly greet the man.

"What a pleasant surprise! D'sen, rider of the blue Sayth, how good to see you!"

The bluerider swung the heavy door shut and snorted. Halen noted the lack of belt knife. "And you hunter. I hear that you refused to tell the Weyrleader and F'nor anything about yourself."

"True, but come now, let's not let such trivialities get in the way of our friendship! We were getting along so well together."

Halen had discovered what his mood was for the conversation. D'sen didn't seem to mind. The dragonman snorted again before responding.

"I found out from R'bas where your room was. Did you know that thanks to you, I'm the laughing stock of the Weyr? Two dragonmen defeated at the same time by a lone holdless hunter! Everyone thinks its my fault. Of course, its not precisely your fault, because you didn't mean to cause me trouble, I'm sure, when you fought me. Regardless, I've decided to place the blame with you. Why escapes me. Admittedly, it made more sense when I was drunk."

"Most things do." Remarked Halen, as though he had a great deal of experience with drinking.

To the hunter's amazement, D'sen began to chuckle. "Indeed they do. Anyway, I'll get to the point. I'm sure escape is on your mind, yes?"

"I won't deny it," responded Halen, allowing the ghost of a smile to pass over his countenance.

"Well, I wanted to you to know that if you manage to worm your way out of Benden, I'll be chasing you. Personally. Never let it be said that I'm not one to keep a grudge."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"You deserve fair warning, I think. But I think it's unlikely that you will get out of here."

"Oh really? Why? Do tell."

The bluerider chuckled again. "Alright, I'll humor you. The eggs have hardened and Lessa reckons that they're fast approaching hatching time. They were a little late hardening, but they'll be early hatching after the hardening. It will probably happen today, in the afternoon."

"Which reduces my chances of escaping because..."

"Because I've decided to stay and watch you until hatching."

"Then you've made a grave miscalculation, bluerider. I could simply box your ears and leave through the conveniently unlocked door behind you. Did you consider that?"

"Yes, briefly. But, although you could probably overpower me, I'd give you a good fight for your troubles, and you'd be hard pressed to escape Benden Weyr in the condition I'd leave you in. Besides, I doubt you could escape during the daytime anyway. You've no idea in the Weyr were you are."

"True." Halen fell silent.

"Personally," continued D'sen, "I have no idea how you could reject a Search. But with that look you had on your face while you fought, I could see that you had your reasons. Now, I've got to respect that. You've got a true, real-as-life determined look. Unfortunately for you, the Weyr is above your petty personal grievances, or F'lar seems to think so. I would have let you go, myself, but F'lar is a better leader an a wiser man than I."

As D'sen admitted his inferiority to the Weyrleader, Halen saw him in a slightly new light. He was still tall, muscled, dark, and fairly handsome, but that was superficial. This was a man of duty. The Weyr true face had just reared its ugly head. Halen wanted no part of that. He wouldn't kowtow to F'lar or any other man.

Halen was reminded of all of the reasons why he hated the Weyr. That they wanted him to fight Thread above everywhere but his homeland. That men had died in Salt's because they didn't fly thread over it. Because they were a part of a society that looked down on the holdless. Because they styled themselves better than other men... It would have taken turns to enumerate his complaints.

D'sen continued, interrupting Halen's thoughts. "At the very least, wouldn't you like to fight Thread. Surely, the Weyr is the lesser of two evils. Thread has killed so many and destroyed so much... Thread is the enemy of all."

A grin broke out on Halen's face. "The Thread has never exactly done me an ill turn. It has Salt's Clearing a few, which I blame on the Weyr. But merely on the personal level, the Weyr is my enemy, and the Thread is the Weyr's enemy. And the enemy of my enemy..." Halen let D'sen complete the axiom for himself. The bluerider scowled at the prospect of anyone claiming the Thread as an ally.

"But why is the Weyr your enemy?" That changed the topic completely.

The hunter began slowly. "I hate the Weyr because I am a selfish, small, hateful, petty man."

"At least you admit it." Halen continued as if he hadn't heard the bluerider's comment.

"And I like myself that way. The Weyrs might be something greater than me, but I have no respect for them and have no desire to further their mission or champion their cause. The exact reasons, and my name, I'll take with me to my grave."

He would be holdless and nameless before he was H'len. The mere thought of an abbreviated name caused bile to rise in the hunter's throat.

D'sen was silent for a long while. He looked out the window behind Halen in a blank stare. Eventually, he nodded several times to himself. The dragonman seemed on the edge of saying something, opened his mouth, but then thought the better of it and returned to his silent stare.

At length, D'sen finally broke the silence. "Your room isn't bad. I'd say its larger than most of the actual candidate's alcoves."

Halen shrugged at that. "The Weyr has been quite hospitable. This is luxurious compared to what I'm used to. It would almost be pleasant, were it not for the locked door."

D'sen chuckled again. "I can imagine."

"No, I doubt you can. But in any case, this is more than I'm used to. I've got a desk, a chair – a real chair – and food, and good food at that, is being delivered to me without my having to kill it. My vocation is killing my own food."

"You may have more in common with dragonkind than you realize, hunter."

"What? Killing my own food? Dragons are like cheating, as far as I'm concerned. Especially since the Weyr ropes up all of the herdbeasts, or so I'm told. Even if you didn't, though, the dragon would easily take down a kill of any size without any danger. That's not hunting. That's slaughter."

"I don't quite follow you, but its a hunter's way of thinking, I'm sure."

"I suppose it is." Halen's hand snaked up to his medallion again. He would be a hunter until death parted him from the metal disk that hung around his neck.

"You're stilling wearing the same armor, I note. Have you even changed the dressings on that wound?"

"I did earlier this morning, and I applied some new numbweed. The arm itself works just fine; it was just the pain that bothered me." They were engaging in meaningless small talk to pass the time.

"Why don't you put on some better clothes than the bloodstained hunter's outfit that you are wearing? The chest over there should have some other garments."

The bluerider gestured to the chest in one corner of the room. Halen hadn't even looked at its contents, much less tried anything on. He knew that the chest also contained the white candidate's robe. The hunter won't be opening the box any time soon.

"I'm content with my current garb, thank you."

Halen was still wearing hunter's colors: brown leather and forest green cloth. Many said that green was an unlucky color, but they were _superstitious fools. _The entire healer craft wore green, and they hadn't exactly had a history of tragedy. Halen would wear his colors proudly for the entire duration of his stay at the Weyr, be it a day more or a year more.

"If you say so. Besides..."

The bluerider was suddenly and abruptly cut off my a deep, vibrant hum. It wasn't exactly musical, but the noise seemed to pierce the skin and penetrate to the soul. Halen didn't know the significance of the humming, but whatever it was, the mere sound chilled him to the bone.

Whatever D'sen had been about to say, it was clearly now irrelevant. The dragonman's face seemed to have gone white in shocked amazement, and his legs lost their power to keep him standing upright. "So soon?" he whispered. "But how? They just hardened... How? Only a few hours ago..."

Halen discerned enough from his fractured sentences to understand that the eggs were hatching. The hunter calmly picked up his healer's kit, which he had been using for shaving, and placed it back inside his pack. He tied the knot firmly, swung the pack over his shoulder, and then calmly, quietly, and internally began to panic.

D'sen seemed to have also panicked, but far more overtly. He clearly thought that hatching would have occurred far later in the day. He continued babbling to himself for a few moments before regaining composure and running over to the chest. He threw open the latch, and withdrew a white robe.

"Now you young fool," hissed the bluerider, "put this on."

Halen took a moment to reassure himself of the integrity of his contingency plan. He then turned to D'sen and gave him a sharp, hard slap on one side of the face.

"Calm yourself, dragonman. Firstly, you'd need five men of your stature to force that on me. Secondly, that robe doesn't fit." It was true. The robe was several hands too short and too narrow around the shoulders. Halen couldn't have put it on with any semblance of decency.

D'sen knew to what to in the case of a sudden hatching like this, Halen was sure. He might be young, in his early thirties or late twenties, but he surely knew what to do. D'sen took a few deep breathes, and did as Halen advised: he calmed himself.

"We need to go, hunter. Hatching is near." The humming had faded out as white noise, but Halen could still feel the vibration in the air. The hunter allowed himself to sigh before sinking into a half-crouch, back facing the window. Halen raised his fists.

"I'm not going without a fight."

D'sen gaped at him. Clearly, the bluerider had had one shock too many this morning. Come to think of it, the bluerider might also have a hangover making things worse. Halen couldn't tell. In any event, D'sen seemed totally unprepared to fight him.

It was therefore fortunate that at that exact moment, the door was flung open. F'nor and another dragonrider stepped over the threshold and into the room. It seemed clear that they instantly knew what was happening. The rider Halen didn't know by name quickly advanced toward the hunter. Halen gave him a good smack to the forehead for his troubles. D'sen attempted to grab him from one side, but Halen elbowed him in the head and kicked the bluerider hard in the shin.

After about a minute of confused, blurred, close-quarters combat, F'nor and the other dragonrider, with considerable difficulty managed to restrain Halen.

"Are you alright, R'bas?" asked F'nor. Halen realized that this man had been present when F'nor had arrived to take him away.

"Yes, I'm fine. Just a little dizzy. We might be worrying about D'sen though."

"No need. I'm fine." D'sen was on his feet, but his statement had been a clear lie. A thin trickle of blood was making its way from his nose to his chin.

"No, you're not," said F'nor. "Stop the bleeding before you come to hatching, but you'd best make it quick."

"Yes, Wingleader." F'nor winced. "I mean, Wingsecond." Halen noticed that F'nor's double bars had been replaced with single bars. That no doubt accounted for the difference in rank.

D'sen rushed out of the room. Halen struggled, to no avail. It didn't matter. He hadn't been expecting to get away. At least he still had his pack over his shoulder. That was really all that mattered at this point. The hunter stopped struggling, exhausted. "Alright. You win this battle, F'nor."

F'nor relaxed his grip. "Let him go, R'bas."

Both riders let go of Halen and stepped away. "Hatching draws near, candidate." Halen winced. "Follow me. We don't have as much as we like, but enough to drag you there if necessary." F'nor seemed to be in a rush all the same. F'nor took up a position in front of Halen, R'bas behind, and together, the two led him through the stone-clean Weyr. The lack of greenery seemed unnatural to Halen. He couldn't stand living here. Another reason not to.

Halen's memory had always been good, especially for names, songs, and things of that nature, but he needed it now more than ever. As they led him out of the corridor where his room was, he desperately tried to memorize the exact path. Probably to no avail. Time would tell.

Right, right, left, straight, right, left, middle fork, through the large single door, and then... They were in open air. Outside. Halen had spent most of his life outside, and these past few days had really been the only time in his life where he simply couldn't get outside. Although the window really gave a constant supply of fresh air, there was something... different about the air outside. Halen took a deep breath.

And then they were ascending a long, reasonably winding path, up towards the hatching ground. The lack of greenery was still unsettling. Why did time have to be moving so fast? He needed more time to prepare himself mentally... Dragons. The air was filled with dragons. Green, Blue, Brown, Bronze... Even Halen, a staunch enemy of the Weyr had to admit that the sight was spectacular. And time was still passing far too quickly. The height was almost dizzying. The humming was growing louder.

What? They were here already? That had been too fast. The hatching grounds lay before him. The area was massive! The entirety of Salt's Clearing could have fit on these sands! There seemed to two areas, one for candidates and one for spectators, but all was blanketed by the sand. Dragons were flying in and dropping off people, then swooping upwards to find some perch to watch from. People rushed and bustled around, chittering, yelping. The tension, anxiety, and excitement in the air was palpable and tangible. One of the white-robed candidates seemed to actually be crying in anticipation.

The masses of people were unbelievable. There must have been three, four, or even five times as many people in all Salt's Clearing here, now! Halen spotted D'sen, his face somewhat bloodstained. A pity that the bluerider had cleaned himself up so fast. Halen had been hoping that he'd wounded the dragonman badly enough to make him miss the event.

As F'nor, R'bas, and Halen came to halt on the sands of the hatching ground, Halen dared to take another look back out of the entrance. The view of the Bowl was incredible, but today, it was amplified by the spectacle of hundreds of dragons, in every conceivable location, all humming. Halen would have continued to gabe at the sight, but F'nor pulled him aside, motioning for R'bas to go.

"Now listen carefully," began the brownrider. "There is no fighting on the hatching ground, and especially not during hatching. If you do anything violent while here, I can't guarantee your safety. No one can. Just stand with other candidates." Halen winced involuntarily and shot a look at the wall of white-robed backs. All eyes were now on the eggs. "It will be a few minutes before the eggs actually start to hatch," F'nor continued. "Whatever happens then will happen. Draconic choice cannot be forced, influenced, or questioned." Halen nodded mutely, processing the information. "Now go."

F'nor led him over to one side of the other candidates, but still in the area, nodded mutely to the mass of white robed contenders, and walked away.

Halen reached up to draw his hood back, only to find that he already had. He had to admit, he was nervous. For him, this was do or die. He couldn't escape, that was almost certain. Well, he could execute his contingency plan early, but there was not telling whether it would work or not. And if he wasn't careful, he could hurt himself. Halen's hand unconsciously slipped down to his pack, still slung on his back, despite the jostling of a fistfight and a long walk.

"I remember you!" An oddly familiar voice reached Halen's ears. The hunter looked around for the speaker, and was surprised when his eyes came to rest on young Gyron, the other Salt's Clearing candidate. Halen smiled at the energetic young man.

"Hello young Gyron. How are you doing?"

"I'm doing fine, sir." Halen visibly winced as Gyron called him "sir". He might be taller and stronger than the young one, but he was still only a child. "But how are you doing. I was with R'bas when they took you back here. Why didn't you want to come?"

"A number of other people have asked me that very question, and I haven't given them answers. Perhaps the answer can't be expressed in words. I don't believe I'll tell you."

"Do you still not want to be here?"

"No, I don't. I wish I was still back at Salt's. But I'm not important. What is important is do you want to be here?" Halen realized he was sounding like a philosopher.

"Yes, very much sir." Halen winced again. It was almost as bad as being called "candidate". "I'm so excited, I can't wait for the hatching." The young boy was practically jumping up and down.

Just then, one of the other candidates engaged Gyron in conversation. Perhaps one the friends that Gyron had made in his stay at the Weyr. Halen might be older, stronger, taller, and more skilled than young Gyron, but Gyron was happier. That was what counted to Halen the most at the moment.

The young hunter stepped away from the other Salt's Clearing candidate and slowly waded to the front of the line of white-robed hopefuls. Several people were staring at him (no one questioned him; perhaps rumors of his resistance had already reached the candidates), but Halen took little note of it. It simply wasn't important at the moment. Halen wanted to get a look at the eggs. The humming was increasing in both volume and pace, no doubt meaning that hatching was imminent.

He parted most of the crowd with no problems, largely due to his size. When he finally reached the front, where he could see the eggs, he was surprised. The eggs were so small! Admittedly, they weren't much smaller than he was, but how did they grow into the huge dragons? Golden Ramoth, the senior queen, sat to one side of her clutch, humming and looking at the candidates with some suspicion. Compared to the eggs, she was a mountain!

He was certain that human babies were proportionally larger than these dragons would be when they hatched. Strange, how small and how large the eggs seemed simultaneously. Fourty-six mottled shells lay on this hatching ground. And it was imperative that every hatching left with a person other than himself. There were, looking around, perhaps a hundred candidates. If it was totally even, his chance of impressing was roughly (very roughly) half. Halen didn't like those odds. He'd just have to make sure that it wasn't even.

The young hunter stood there, no doubt looking totally out of place in the sea of white robes, but left alone. He looked from one egg to another, judging distances, sizes, color, trying to position himself as far from them as he possibly could without drawing too much attention. In the end, he decided to stay in the front of the line, but off to the side with the fewest eggs.

He was ready. Now, if only the hatching would start! The humming had slowly been increasing in volume, which no doubt indicated the proximity of the hatching. Ramoth swung her head from the eggs to the candidates and back again. Shells, that dragon was huge! Halen would have hated to rouse her fury. F'nor had advised him to avoid fighting for fear of his safety, and he now understood why.

The humming grew louder. The sands were hot beneath his feet, despite his thick boots. Halen shifted uncomfortably. The ground had no right to be so warm this far north! His leather footwear could stop a hunting caltrop, should he accidentally step on one. Yet, some how, even his boots, padded and armored, could not stop this immense heat. It was bearable, however, once you got used to it.

An indiscriminate period of time passed. It could have been five minutes or fifty, though Halen fancied that it was closer to the former. In any case, just as the hunter was about to ask how long this usually took, one of the eggs began to rock. Then another. Then another. And soon, the entire clutch was shaking and rocking. The humming chanced tempo, and the volume became incredible.

A candidate behind Halen shrieked. What was so fearsome about these over-sized, rocking wherry eggs? Perhaps, Halen decided, the candidate was not afraid of the eggs themselves, but of the possibility within the eggs: success or failure, selection or rejection, vindication or despair.

Halen drew his thoughts away from the pondering. His concentration was needed elsewhere. One of the eggs seemed to be cracking.

Hatred was his greatest ally, and so Halen called upon its aid. He reached into his heart, and summoned the infinite anger, contempt, and loathing he harbored for all of society: for the Hold, the Hall, and the Weyr. For dragonkind as well. Halen could have sworn that Ramoth had glanced at him as he did so.

Once, now some turns past, when Halen had been visiting Benden Hold, he had heard a argument about what Impressed a dragon. The debaters had few real facts to work off of, but they did agree on a few things: the fearful were passed over (for dragonmen had to be brave to fly the vicious Thread), and the greedy were rejected (for that was not the purpose of the Weyr). If that was true, how would these newborn dragons respond to outright, unbridled hatred? How could such petty emotions and motivations as greed and fear compare to spite and malice?

With a near sickening crunch, the first shell of the hatching cracked, on near the middle of the line of candidates. The mottled shell gave way, and Ramoth trumpeted a deafening welcome to the new dragonet, and no doubt bid it choose a lifemate. Halen, some fifteen meters away, couldn't make out the color at first (it seemed to be covered in residue from its recent birth), but realized that it was a bronze. A number of candidates, including some in his area, jumped forth, but kept a respectful distance. No one wanted to force themselves on it, or appear greedy in its eyes. Halen, for his part, merely stood back and concentrated all of his endless hate on the thing.

The hatchling stumbled, and then began to move in his general direction. At first, Halen started, (Was it moving towards him?) but then realized that its present course would take it behind him, towards the back of the line.

It did as he anticipated, charging towards some lucky boy behind him, stumbling every step of the way. It came near Halen (he hadn't quite realized how big the thing was; perhaps he had been wrong about his proportionality guesses), and stumbled, a claw accidentally lashing out for support. He deftly sidestepped the thing. A thousand hunts of experience had taught him how to deal with charging beasts. If this had been a mountain feline, rather than a dragon, he would drawn his sword, spear, or belt-knife and finished it off as moved past him. Halen had to check his reflexes to stop his hand from slipping to his empty belt-sheathes.

Halen was safely out of the way, but the dragonet kept right on stumbling. Two other candidates behind imitated his action and jumped clear. But one silly boy, fair-haired and about fourteen turns, by the looks of him, just shrieked and cowered. The hatchling bronze's claw caught him in lower part of the left side of his chest, and raked its way down through his hip and into part of his thigh.

The dragon and the boy yelped in unison, the former of the two dislodging his claw and falling to the side opposite the fallen candidate. Three more candidates rushed to help the hatchling back to its feet, but no one approached the wounded youth.

Time, which had been moving so unbearably fast before, came to a near standstill for Halen. The severed white robe looked so odd on the crippled form. It seemed that it was being dyed red in slow motion. Halen looked around. No one seemed to be moving to help the boy.

Halen looked around once more. He heard someone yell something. He turned to see another, older boy embracing the bronze. That wasn't important, at the moment. What was important was that still, no one seemed to be helping the young man. Were they all expecting someone else to do it? Where were was the Weyr Healer? Halen called for a healer, but it was no use. The crowd was cheering the new pair of lifemates. No one had taken notice of the possibly mortally wounded candidate, struck down by a fledgling dragon's claw.

In Salt's Clearing, there were a number of commonly invoked, but undocumented, rules. One of these was that if a person nearby was injured, as soon as danger had passed, his injury took precedent over everything else. This was especially important for hunters. If a fellow hunter (for hunters rarely hunted alone), was wounded, his companions should abandon the quarry (provided that the quarry had abandoned them), and treat him immediately.

Halen himself had been injured once, and had had to attend to injured companions twice. But now was not the time for recollection. The hunter leaped forward, and, grabbing the boy by one arm, dragged him off of the hot and now bloodstained sands. It seemed an eternity before they reached the rim of the arena. He had forgotten how heavy people were! Halen lacked the strength to lift the boy out of the bowl. He'd just have to keep him here. At least the sands, overshadowed by the rim of the arena, were cooler. The boy was crying and blithering like an idiot. He opened his mouth to try to say something.

"No, no, no! Don't try to talk. Relax. I need to figure out how bad your injuries are. I'm sure the Weyr healer is on the way." Let him be on the way, thought Halen somewhat desperately. He didn't have the what he needed to treat a deep chest wound.

Halen parted the robe along the uneven cut line that the dragonet had produced and almost sighed with relief. The claw hadn't done much damage to the chest, or the hip. That part of the cut was mostly a scratch. However, the bronze had clearly put more weight on the claw closer to end, as he had fallen more, and the wound to the thigh was deep. The chest wound, by comparison, was totally irrelevant. It had already clotted. The leg wound, however... The boy could bleed to death, if he didn't get medical assistance. It seemed that Halen was that very medical assistance.

Halen hoisted the pack off of his back, raising his head as did so. By chance, his gaze caught that of F'lar's, in the front row of the arena. The hunter shot the Weyrleader a withering glance before turning back to his patient. In the face of possible death, all other things became irrelevant. Even his grudge with the Weyr would have to wait. This boy had his entire life ahead of him, just as Halen did, and he wasn't about to allow him to die.

A cheer went up from the crowd. The next dragon had Impressed, it seemed. Once again, not relevant. Halen willed himself to cancel out all noise. He wasn't an experienced Healer, and he needed to concentrate once again.

There was blood all over the wound. Halen removed his primary waterskin and dumped some of the contents onto the boy's leg. The diluted blood ran off of the wound, tinting the sand beneath them red. He stilled needed to mop the remained off, though. How? He didn't have a cloth. He ripped off his hood and used it as an impromptu towel. The green quickly stained purplish red. Once the site was dry, the hunter discarded the used hood.

Halen removed his Healer's kit. He quickly took out his pot of numbweed, already mixed with healing salve and applied it generously to the open wound before him. The stench and color of blood on his had was sickening. Funny, wasn't it? That he had, not two days ago, sworn that he might kill himself here. Now, he was saving a life, and was sickened by the mere sight and smell of blood.

"Can you still feel much pain?" Halen asked.

The boy shook his head: no. It occurred to Halen that he didn't know the boy he was treated. He didn't even know the other's name. Not relevant. Halen mentally scolded himself. He needed to concentrate.

The leg would most likely have to be splinted, or something along those. Halen didn't know for sure, but he'd have to make due with what he had here. He couldn't remember is he was supposed to apply pressure to the wound. He knew that that was true for deep chest wounds. No, he guessed, and withdrew a length of rope.

If he tied rope around the leg, he could hopefully stem the blood flow. Halen tied the rope tightly around the upper leg, just below the hip, and reached for his knife, to cut the rope... his hand closed on open air.

Halen swore silently. He'd have to leave it like that, cut it later. He needed to stitch and bandage the leg, the last part of the operation. Halen took out the needle, already threaded, and pierced the skin near the top of the serious part of the wound.

Stitch after stitch, sloppily, hastily, and amateurly done. Halen blocked out all of the outside noise and events, concentrating solely on his patient. He, therefore, didn't notice as a small, blue hatchling made its way through and around the crowd of candidates, towards the hunter...

The patient was looking at something behind the man treating him. Perhaps watching the hatching. Irrelevant. Halen scolded himself internally. Still, as long as the wounded boy didn't move to much...

Halen had just finished the last stitch. He tied down the last length of thread and grabbed his knife to cut off the tail of the material. At least he would have, if his knife had been in his belt. As Halen's hand closed on air for the second time, he swore softly. He couldn't just leave stitching like this; he needed to cut off the excess thread. A thought struck the hunter. Holding the needle in one hand, he reached into his medical pack and drew the razor. With a flick of his wrist, he drew out the blade and sawed off the tail.

He replaced the needle and withdrew his bandage roll. Halen began to wrap lengths of the linen material around the serious sections of the wound. It would be hard to cut with nothing but a razor, but he might still be able to...

A strong nudge in his back caused him to fall forward, barely missing the patient. Halen knew perfectly well where the push might have come from, and scrambled to grab the secondary waterskin from his pack, which contained his contingency plan. The hunter turned over to face the aggressor. He found himself staring at a blue dragon.

Fear surged through Halen, almost instantly replaced by relief. The dragon wasn't looking at Halen. He was looking at his patient. The wounded young man tried to sit up. At that point, Halen bolted towards him, forcing him to stay down.

"No you don't! Slowly, very slowly, sit up. Don't stand up. There you go."

The boy did as he was told, sitting up slowly before embracing the dragon. Halen went back to work on the left leg, glad that the blue hatchling was now behind his patient's head.

A look of pure joy crossed the wounded youth's face as he announced to Halen: "His name is Cyerith!"

Halen didn't even think he could have pronounced the name. "Great, kid." he muttered, before remembering that he was only the boy's senior by two or three turns. "Hold still for a second." Halen managed to cut off some of the bandaging with his razor, incredibly. That why he was cutting himself on it! The damned thing was so sharp. He needed to remember to take worse care of it.

"Can I get up now?" asked the boy. "Cyerith says that he's hungry."

"You won't be getting up for some time. Your leg is badly damaged, and I'm sorry to say that you can't stand on it. Even if it doesn't hurt because of the numbweed, don't make the mistake of thinking that you're fine." Halen gestured to his left arm. "This arm feels fine, but three days ago, someone sank his blade into it and raked through the muscle. I need to help to hoist you off of the ground, I'm not strong enough on my own."

As if in response, someone behind Halen thrust a bowl of meat into the young boy's hands. "I might be that help," said a familiar voice. The hunter whirled around to see F'lar, the Weyrleader himself. The bronzerider continued, "Well, Fal'an," (the young boy grinned at the abbreviation) "rider of blue Cyerith, I think you owe your thanks to this young man here." F'lar gestured to Halen. Fal'an voiced his thanks as he fed the entire contents of the bowl to Cyerith.

F'lar and Halen each grabbed Fal'an, newly a dragonrider, under an armpit and dragged him to his feet, mindful of the injured leg. Together, Halen and the Weyrleader carried the weyrling out of the arena and past the crowd, blue Cyerith trailing not far behind the trio. Amongst many gazes of surprise (D'sen's among them, Halen noticed), be they at F'lar's or Halen's assistance, they moved Fal'an to the feeding area, where bowls and tubs of meat had been set for the hatchlings. The other lucky young men parted before them, respectfully allowing the wounded among their number to pass.

After being set carefully down, Fal'an refilled the bowl he had already been carrying, feed Cyerith meat blocks by the handful. Halen took a moment to reposition the weyrling, seating him with his back to the wall and injured leg outstreched, a meat tub close by. F'lar whipped out his belt knife and sawed off the excess rope. He handed the coil to Halen.

"It looked rather silly hanging from his leg like that. Shouldn't you take it off soon?"

"Honestly, Weyrleader, I don't know. I'm no healer. I really forgot how to treat a deep leg wound. You should talk to the weyr healer." Halen leaned against the wall; his exertions in treating and carrying Fal'an had exhausted him. The hunter dragged the back of his hand across his forehead, wiping away sweat.

"To be honest with you, Weyrleader F'lar, I tend to flatter myself, just as everyone does. I think whatever work I did do on Fal'an's leg was done hastily and probably badly. I suggest that we move him back to the Weyr for better treatment at his earliest convenience. If you'd care to help me, I can take him. Just as soon as I catch my breath."

F'lar chuckled. "I'm sorry, but you're not getting off of the hatching ground quite that easily."

"Well, now that you mention it, you can't leave the hatching ground either. I imagine that it is the Weyrleader's traditional duty and responsibility to be present for the entirety of the hatching."F'lar chuckled again.

"True. But I may have half of a solution to our quandary. Here comes Tirean." F'lar gestured towards the cavern entrance.

Sure enough, an grandfatherly looking man of fifty or sixty years, clad in green, a hefty pack slung over one shoulder, was jogging into the hatching ground, apparently panting with exertion. He approached Halen and F'lar. The elderly man began to speak.

"Humph. I see that the young one has been patched up already. I needn't have run then." He put down his luggage and leaned over, catching his breath. Halen then realized the two facts he had missed initially: that the man was wearing master's knots and that green was the healer craft's color.

"Mastercraftsman, are you the weyr healer."

Tirean looked up at Halen. "You must be visiting. Yes, young man, I am the head weyr healer. And I have been for thirty turns. Not a dragon healer, and not a dragon rider, but I've stationed at Benden Weyr since the good Weyrleader here was just a boy. I apologize for the delay, but I ran to get my pack as soon as I saw that young candidate was injured."

"I thought injuries were common on the hatching ground. I came prepared." Halen patted his own pack.

"So you helped him out, did you? You're wearing green, but in the fashion of healers. Yes, injuries were far more common earlier, before F'lar became Weyrleader. I recall four fatalities and six bad injuries during Ramoth's hatching. But these days, there are fewer and fewer casualties. This is the first in four turns."

"With all due respect, Master Healer Tirean, shouldn't someone younger and with more vigor have come sooner?"

The old craftsman cracked a smile at Halen. "A perceptive one. No one currently stationed here but myself and one journeymen have experience treating wounds on site. Speaking of which, how did you do? Hold and craft association?"

Halen smiled in return. "Holdless, I'm sorry to say. But I'm a hunter, and I have some past experience with this sort of thing. Those bindings should hold until you can get him back to your craft station." Halen gestured at Fal'an, still feeding his dragon, a look of pure, unadulterated joy on his face. "I didn't do it very well, I'm afraid. But it should hold. I think." Tirean laughed. "Alright, young hunter. I can't get him there myself, unfortunately. I can round up someone, though. No need to worry."

As Tirean went about his business, calling over another green-clad healer to aid him, F'lar chuckled quietly. "That solves both our problems, it seems. Now that that's over with, you need to get back to the other candidates." Halen was jostled back into the reality of the situation by F'lar's remark. The hunter whirled around to survey the scene, and nearly laughed with relief.

"Weyrleader, what's the point? Every shell has cracked, as far as I can see. There are four dragons who still haven't Impressed. A bronze, a brown, a blue, and a green. And we're on the opposite side of the hatching ground; they're surely have Impressed by the time we get there. Besides, if Cyerith found Fal'an from the far side of the arena, I'm sure that a dragon that really had its heart set on me would come to me."

"There are those two eggs in that corner." F'lar pointed.

"Ah, yes, I see. But still..."

"I'll accompany you, young man. Six dragons left, one might want you. Come."

As the two dropped down back into the arena, Halen realized what had just happened. He had cooperated with the Weyrleader of Benden Weyr, among his sworn enemies, to save the life of a dragonrider. Perhaps a historic moment in his life. In the future, Halen mused, he might regret what he had done here today.

Halen and F'lar had reached the front of the cluster of hopefuls, and, much to Halen's relief, not a one of the four unimpressed dragons was expressing the slightest interest in him. The Weyrleader was guiding him, weaving through small groups, smiling encouragingly at the remaining candidates, and drawing a surprised gaze or two. Halen realized that he not seen Weyrwoman Lessa, whose golden Ramoth had clutched these hatchlings. The hunter chanced another glance back at the giant gold, who was craning her head over the two remaining unhatched eggs.

The two passed by the circle surrounding the unimpressed bronze, which was making quite a show of looking over each remaining hopeful in turn. Only a few seconds after Halen passed by the edge of the circle, a cry went up from the crowd, much louder than any of the other exclamations the youth had heard. Halen whirled around to see what had happened. He immediately understood.

None other than young Gyron was hugging the bronze, his minuscule form dwarfed by the hatchling, body still glistening wet from its own birth. For a moment, Gyron looked up from his new life mate and met Halen's. And, to his surprise, Halen felt himself smile.

Holding the young dragonrider's gaze, Halen said softly, "You earned it." Gyron, as if he could hear the hunter, grinned his impossibly wide smile and embraced his dragon even harder. Even if Halen held a grudge against the Weyr, he simply couldn't have felt hate against someone who seemed so happy. F'lar, who had stopped and tracked Halen's gaze, said, "I seem to recall that he is the other boy from Salt's Clearing. I can't recall his name, though."

Halen continued to smile. "I believe, Weyrleader, that that is bronze rider G'ron, if he chooses that name."

A smile crept onto F'lar's face as well. "Another new bronze rider! There were many this hatching. You stay here. I'd best go greet him." Halen shot one last grin at his fellow countryman and surveyed the hatching ground. The green was still unimpressed, it seemed, but it was on the other side of the arena. Neither of the last two unhatched eggs had, well, hatched, but one was rocking with great enthusiasm. The other one, and the one closer to Halen showed no sign of movement. The hunter gave a sigh of relief and turned to look at the entrance.

People had started flooding out some minutes ago. Odd, given that not all dragons had Impressed yet, but odd or not, they had done it. There were perhaps a third as many people as there originally had been. Still, it made sense. Family and friends had left with the "lucky" pairs. The Weyr staff had to leave, as further congratulations of some kind were surely in order. Not to mention that the sands were very hot. They had probably been here an hour! He couldn't blame them. Come to think of it... Halen wiped the sweat from his forehead and drew his primary waterskin from his pack.

It was lighter than it should have been. He hadn't accidentally soaked his possessions, had he? No, he had used it to clean Fal'an's wound. That was right. In any event, Halen drained the skin, savoring the refreshing water as if it were fine wine.

Noon drew closer and closer, and the sun was high in the sky. The mountains around them and the Weyr Bowl beneath the hatching ground was bathed in light. The world seemed to glisten. Halen had a clear view of the entire Weyr around him, now that most of the crowd was gone. The dragons, however, were still perched absolutely everywhere, seeming to peer into the hatching ground. The view was majestic, and, thanks to the dragons, very unique, but still disturbing. Other than the emerald hides of some of the dragons, there wasn't a speck of green to be seen.

Halen once again wondered if, after this hatching was done with, he would find peace. The background noise was very loud, but still distant from Halen. Several welcoming trumpets from Ramoth and surrounding dragons. Several? He had only seen two more eggs.

As Halen approached the edge of the arena, still surveying his surroundings, Weyrleader F'lar returned. The hunter answered F'lar's unspoken question. "Not thinking of running. Just admiring the scenery. It's too barren my liking, I have to admit."

F'lar gazed off into the distance. "A bronze was the first to hatch, which they say is good luck. A bronze was also last to hatch, which they also say is good luck. The two combined surely mean very good luck." Halen cocked an eyebrow at F'lar. "A bronze was last to hatch?"

"Yes. A blue and a brown also hatched. Ramoth had hidden off two eggs in a corner, as if she thought someone would steal one again. It took them a while to stumble over, though. That makes four dragons unimpressed, because there seems to be an especially picky green down in one corner. You will be happy to know that none of them seem to be so much as glancing at us."

"What about the small egg nearest us?" asked Halen, without looking away from the hatching ground entrance.

"Unfortunately, the dragon inside must be dead. It's not even rocking. That's too bad, but there simply isn't anything that anyone can do about it."

Halen nodded. "Injured or weakened, we might be obliged to help it, but dead is dead. There's no coming back from death." A cry rose up from the crowd, far behind the two men. Another impression. The Salt's Clearing hunter, once again, didn't stir.

F'lar sighed. "Hatching is all but over. I'm sorry I had to put you through this. I don't know why you dislike the Weyr, but I suppose that I have no choice but to accept your ill will towards us. Please understand that if it had been a matter of your impact alone, I probably would have just let you go."

"Apology accepted, if that was an apology. All's well that ends well."

"I suppose you don't care to stay around for the festivities?"

"No."

"Then I'll arrange to have some take you back to -"

"I'd rather walk. There's someone on the way that I wanted to meet along the way." Penet was waiting.

F'lar glanced at Halen, surprised, and then nodded. "Alright, then. I have to go console the unsuccessful candidates soon, but... Well, its just that I'm wondering if I made the right choice."

"Taking me from my home and hearth? I can't say that I condone that."

"I know that you don't, but do I? In this case, everything, as you said, ended well. You didn't Impress and I didn't break tradition. But, in a situation like that, what is the right choice? The Searched, like everyone associated with the Weyr, have an obligation to all of Pern. However, you don't feel that you do, and you didn't want to come. It seemed immoral to force you to stand at hatching. And then there was precedent to think of..."

"In my eyes, your decision was the wrong one, Weyrleader. However, I'm sure that you didn't become Weyrleader by making wrong decisions. I'll say it again: All's well that ends well. I'll go back to Salt's Clearing as though nothing had happened these three past days."

F'lar said nothing, but continued to stare into the distance. The Weyrleader of Benden Weyr, the most powerful man on Pern, had paused to think, and on Halen's lowly account. This was the man who had the power to make everything right, if he wanted to. To fix all of the problems with society. And he was pondering whether he had done the right thing to Halen. Perhaps it was a step in the right direction.

Suddenly, F'lar began to speak softly.

_"__Honor those the dragons heed,_

___In though and favor, word and deed._

___Worlds are lost or worlds are saved_

___From those dangers dragon-braved._

___Dragonman, avoid excess;_

___Greed will bring the Weyr distress;_

___To the ancient Laws adhere,_

___Prospers thus the Dragonweyr."_

The Weyrleader continued. "Contradictory advice in this case. Tradition dictates that you should stand at hatching, but forcing you to do so also seems greedy. I suppose I should just rely on my own good judgement, but there is one more little ditty that strikes me as pertinent:

_'__Drummer, beat, and piper, blow,_

___Harper, strike, and soldier, go._

___Free the flame and sear the grasses_

___Till the dawning Red Star passes._'

Other than the obvious, I feel that it means that each man should stay to his own. You are a hunter and have no desire to be a dragonman. Perhaps I did make the wrong decision. I don't like to be hidebound or traditional, but I feel that there is wisdom in that old rhyme."

Halen chuckled. "For the third time, All's well that ends well. But still, I had a friend," (Halen thought of Penet), "who likes those verses in particular and had a talent for words. He added two lines:

_'__Craftsman, make, and Holder, give,_

___Weyrman, fight, and Holdless, live._'

That was all. It merely means that the Holdless man has one and only duty: to live. I'm fine, nothing came of this, even if it was a mistake. We should merely be thankful that nothing happened that would cause me to carry an additional grudge against the Weyr. As I said before, I'll overlook this incident and go back to Salt's Clearing as though nothing had happened."

The two stood there for a moment longer, staring out at the Weyr Bowl just before them. Then, Halen readjusted his pack and said to F'lar, without turning his head:

"Well, I'll be off then, if you have no objections. Until we meet again Weyr-"

Something very large and heavy collided with Halen, sending him careening face-down into the steep incline between the arena and the spectator area.

Halen was intelligent enough to know what was probably happening. The hunter thought it best to keep his head down and very quickly reviewed his options. He had a knife in one boot, true, but its use would unforgivable. Better to enact his contingency plan. Without looking up, he reached into his pack, drew out his secondary waterskin, and fumbled with the spigot. Halen had just drained the whole of the contents when he felt something large and heavy brush against his back.

___I finally got here! I'm sorry it took so long, but I'm here now. I'm also very hungry._

They were thoughts, but not his own: clearly alien. Only a dragon had the power to insert thoughts into someone's mind. Cold panic swept through Halen as he realized the depth of the situation. Panic or no, he needed to do something; he had already enacted his contingency. He just had to wait.

Halen quickly blanked his mind. (Had he been thinking, he would have rationalized this by telling himself that the thing could read his thoughts.) A deep instinct tugged at him, telling him that all he had to do to complete Impression was to look up at the dragon. Just look at the dragon – that was it. He would have a new companion for life, and would never be lonely again.

The greater consciousness of Halen's mind thanked the deep instinct for the information, and dismissed it back to wherever intuition and impulse resides when it's not being used. The hunter squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could.

Mentally, Halen began to build a barrier against his unseen assailant, concentrating deeply and blocking off anything and everything. Still, the hatchling seemed to have chosen him, and wouldn't choose anyone else. What had F'nor said? "Draconic choice cannot be forced, influenced, or questioned." If Halen had his way, he wouldn't merely influence it: he would twist and bend it to the breaking point. The hunter (hunter, but never a dragonrider! Never! Death first!), continued to resist Impression.

___Why? Don't you like me? I'm sorry that I didn't get here very quickly, but there were others in the way. And you were so far from me. I didn't see you immediately. But I'm here now, and I'm sorry._

Halen's mind very quickly became garbled and disoriented as the drug began to take effect. He was glad that this was almost over. The dragon's tone was piteous, but Halen didn't care. He reached down into the bottom of his soul, as he had only an hour earlier, and unleashed the mad demon called hate. What did he know of pity? The Weyr and society and Pern could be Thread-bared and damned between for all he cared! The color of the hide and the gender of this dragon didn't matter. He hated them all equally. Getting him to try to Impress was like trying to get blood from a stone.

Halen, careful not to actually think it, took his own name and threw it in a mental safe, next to his very soul. A dragon, despite a fearsome appearance, was supposedly a kindly and compassionate creature. And the imaginary steel of which the lockbox was forged was cold as between and black as a night. The dragon would dare not touch it.

Halen began to relax as darkness began to consume him. He was vaguely aware that the dragon was trying to talk to him again.

_My name-_

The darkness consumed his mind and Halen fell into unconsciousness. The Fellis sleeping potion had worked perfectly.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Something had gone wrong. Terribly wrong. He knew this much. His prescience had told him so. And along side this, his prescience had informed him that he was not the person to deal with. He was almost the person, but not quite, as if something fundamental had gone wrong in his mother's woom.

Speaking (or thinking, rather) of which, who was he? Where was he? He didn't seem able to see. He should be able to see, shouldn't he? He was almost sure that he could see before...

His prescience forced his attention back to the problem. In the east, the far east, something had gone wrong. He could sense. But once again, he wasn't proper person to handle it. Still, what had gone wrong? It was related to dragons somehow. The Red Star? That was in the east! (How did he know that?)

The prescience told him no. It wasn't the Red Star. One of the Weyrs then? Yes? The far eastern Weyr? Benden Weyr! Something had gone wrong at Benden Weyr. But how was he to get there? He was far from Benden. He knew that much.

His prescience told him that he wasn't to go to Benden Weyr. He wasn't the right person. Not quite. He just had to allow the right person to fix the problem. He just had to wait.

And so, as the prescience faded, and as sight and memory came rushing back to him, he knew that all he had to do was wait.

/ This was written over long period of time, so I hope its fairly good. New questions are cropping up everywhere! What will happen next? Will Halen escape? What will happen to Halen and his dragon? What color is his dragon? What is his dragon's name? Who is this new character (yes, he's a new character) who is narrating for a few paragraphs at the end of the chapter? Who is the "right" person? Will I stop writing cliffhangers any time soon? (No, probably not.) Read and review please; I worked hard on this chapter!

Until next time, The ACS Dude /


	6. Chapter 5: Racing the Night

/ Author's Comments:

The fifth chapter in this story. I renew the assertion that the disclaimer in the first chapter applies to the entire story. I own the characters I came up with.

Firstly, I noticed the error in the last chapter that entitled it "Chapter 5". I'm working to fix that. This is the fifth chapter in the story, or sixth, including the prologue.

I finally finished "The Skies of Pern", and I may now go on to reading the books that take place chronologically earlier. (I have already read "Dragonsdawn", but no other books before the Last Pass.)

I realize that it has been over a month since I last updated, but I've been up to my ears in work, coupled with a technical problem or two. I'm sorry for the delay, but here is the next chapter of the story:

(One last thing: the title was taken from _Crusade_, which I do not own. However, I don't believe they hold rights to the words "Racing the Night".)

NOTE: A badly formatted version of this chapter was accidentally uploaded prematurely. This is the better version.

Chapter Information:

Drafting Began: 4:58:50 PM (GMT), October 14, 2006

Drafting Ended: 4:58:50 PM (GMT), October 29, 2006

Uploaded: 5:09:03 PM (GMT), October 29, 2006

The Rogue of Pern

Chapter 5: Racing the Night

Benden Weyr

Present Pass, 16.1.15

Late Morning (Benden Time)

"Careful now, lad. You don't want to bump that leg around too much. It'd be a true pity if you were put out of action on the day of your Impression!"

Master Healer Tirean was having a hard time with Fal'an, among the newest Dragonmen at Benden Weyr this turn. The boy was simply overeager.

"With respect, Master Healer, I feel fine. If you'd give me a crutch, I'd have no problems going out to the Hatching feast." The bluerider gave a loving glance at Cyerith, who, at the moment, was eating newly butchered meat at a rate that only a newly born hatching could achieve.

Tirean sighed again. "I understand that you _feel_ fine, but the dulling effect of numbweed can be deceiving." He had just finished changing the dressings on the wound, and the boy already felt that his leg was fine. "At the very least, the wound will take several days to heal."

The healer glanced around at the stone-clean décor of the infirmary. Other than a few apprentices and one journeyman, all of whom had stayed to assist Tirean out of respect, the Healer staff had gone off to the feast, which would have no doubt already started. Fortunately, most of the other Healers in the Weyr either specialized in treating threadscoring or were dragon healers.

Tirean continued his lecture. "I'll give you a crutch tomorrow, if I think appropriate. That wound is still fresh, and there's no sense in stressing..." Tirean's gaze met Fal'an's.

"Please, Master Healer. This is probably the biggest day of my life. The wound isn't that serious. My family is out there. Even if I am injured, I should go out there." The ghost of a tear formed in Fal'an's eye, and Cyerith crooned slightly.

Tirean sighed again. He could feel himself acquiescing. He had always had a soft spot or two in him. "Very well, young dragonman. On you feet!" Tirean grabbed him under the armpit and lifted the boy off of the rough bed and onto the stone floor. "Ridon!" Tirean roared the name of an apprentice. "Get a pair of crutches for Fal'an."

Ridon appeared moments later with the requested devices. Slowly, the Master Healer slid one under each of Fal'an's arms. The young man grasped the hand-holds. "Those should take some getting used to, young man, but they'll suffice. Ridon!" The dark-haired apprentice snapped to attention as though he were a soldier. "Escort this young man to and through the feast today. If he has any problems with his legs, bring him back here immediately. Help him so he doesn't fall."

Just then, the door to the infirmary was thrown open with a resounding bang. None other than Wingsecond F'nor was standing in the doorway.

Every time Master Healer Tirean saw F'nor, something moved inside him. The brownrider was always merrier than his half-brother, always in high spirits, but there was something about him that made him older beyond his time. Not only Turns of fighting the evil Thread, but also a deep knife wound in one shoulder and a trip to the red star had aged him tremendously. At times, F'nor seemed a young boy, much like the one Tirean remembered from twenty Turns ago, and then, sometimes, he looked as he did now.

Despite the happy occasion, no smile crossed F'nor's usually jovial countenance. The scars from his fateful otherworldly trip, usually unnoticeable, seemed to jump out, giving his face an elderly and careworn look. Something had happened. Something beyond Fal'an's injury.

"Master Tirean," began the brownrider, "you are needed on the Hatching Ground. Bring you Healer's kit." F'nor's voice was grave.

Tirean looked the rider straight in the eye. "What happened?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"I said that he had probably fainted from the prolonged exposure to the heat of the Hatching Ground sands. That was why he had reached for that waterskin. Then I asked everyone to leave so that you, Master Healer, could get here and take a look at him. The Hatching was through anyway, so it wasn't too much trouble clearing the area." The Weyrleader's voice was deceptively calm as he addressed Tirean. "I asked F'nor to come get you, because I don't want this incident to circulate as rumor too much. F'nor already knew, of course."

Tirean snorted. "Quick thinking, Weyrleader F'lar. Any healer experienced in such afflictions would know, of course, that this wasn't heat stroke." The still unnamed holdless hunter had been flipped face-up, but still remained motionless on the sand. His pack had been searched and laid bare by the Master Healer and the Weyrleader.

"This time around, certainly, we'll keep a closer eye on him. Shouldn't have let him keep the pack in the first place. Still, everything in there seemed so innocuous..." F'lar trailed off.

"Yes. Fellis is a very usual and totally standard tool to have for a Healer. For a hunter, it would be useful to sedate an injured peer. Now, you say that this vial was full when you first saw it?"

"Yes, Master Tirean. I am certain of it."

"Is this pure Fellis?"

"How should I know?" F'lar shrugged. "I never thought to check."

"No, no, F'lar, I don't blame you. It was a silly question to ask. But if this was pure Fellis," Tirean swirled the container, now more that half empty, "than this is a large overdose, by anyone's standards."

F'lar started. "If he's in danger..."

"Nah, he's in no danger. Someone as young as he could endure a Fellis overdose and be right as rain again in a few sevendays. Until then, he'll have some problems with exhaustion, but he shouldn't have to worry too much about that. Oh yes, and of course he'll be asleep for a while, but there's no saying how long. His weight is a factor in that, as well as a the body's natural response to it. He won't be awake for at least a few hours, though. Now, personally, I'd be more worried about the hatchling. Humans are my expertise, but you can't be a Master Healer in a Weyr for as many years as I have without picking up a thing or two. I can't imagine that this boy's new weyrmate was particularly happy about him collapsing into a deep sleep _intentionally_ a few seconds after Impression. Speaking of which, how certain are you that Impression actually occured? This young man have somehow rejected... I don't recall you telling me the hatchling's name."

F'lar gazed off into the distance. F'lar stared intently at his shoes. Tirean looked from half-brother to half-brother attempting to make eye contact. "What's the matter?" asked the healer suspiciously.

The Benden Weyrleader slowly turned to meet the healer's gaze. "It's not a major problem, hopefully. The dragon is in good shape, physically, but, as you said, perturbed mentally. Just disturbed, not panicked. And, Impression occured, or at least the hatchling seems to think so. It's just that it won't pick, or tell us, a name."

A loud snort came from Tirean's right. "They say that, in one way or another, the dragon resembles the rider. Totally appropriate. A nameless pair. Still, it makes sense. The argument is solid and coherent. The hatchling claims that the rider, not the Weyrleader, not the senior queen, not the Weyrwoman, but the rider, should be the first to know the name of the hatchling. And same from hatchling to dragon. At the moment of Impression, dragon and rider exchange names. It only follows logically that a hatchling would want its rider to be the first to know a name. Sayath certainly seems to agree with me."

Tirean nodded his head thoughtfully at bluerider D'sen's comment. "I hadn't been informed that the boy wouldn't divulge his name. He told me that he was holdless, of course. Ah well, some people have their respective oddities. Where is this nameless hatchling now?"

"Lessa calmed it down and led it away. I don't know for certain, but I greatly suspect that it is eating now. Hatchlings are born hungry, as we all know. I can check if you'd like..." Tirean interrupted F'lar. "I will leave it in the Weyrwoman's capable hands. If anyone can handle this particular problem, I'm sure that it is her. Now, I need to take this new dragonrider of ours down to the Living Caverns. I need to check his vitals and a few other things, but I'm sure that he's fine. After that, you can plop him down wherever you like. Now, I'm not as strong as I once was, so if you could oblige me by lifting him..."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Halen awoke, for the second time in all too few days, with a incredible sense of disorientation. His vision, despite being entirely black, also managed to swim. Where was he? Halen was struck by a very strong wave of _déja vu_. Hadn't he asked himself that very question when he had first awoken in the Weyr... THE WEYR!

Just as he had the first time he had arrived at Benden, Halen bolted up in the bed in what was both his shelter and his prison. Halen shook his head, trying to clear it. This time, there was a distinct lack of pain as he had moved. Memory was returning to him, but it seemed at a snail's pace. It trickled back into his mind as though it were droplets filling a basin. The events of the previous morning were blurred and coming in bits and pieces. He had been shaving. Yes.

Halen winced involuntarily and felt his chin. Some half-dozen cuts from the experience had yet to heal. And the bluerider, D'sen, had come to speak with him. And what had happened next? There had been a humming and... Hatching. That sole word unlocked everything. He had Impressed, partially or in whole, a newborn dragon. He, Halen of Salt's Clearing, had Impressed. But he had won the mental battle! Or, at least in part. Or, perhaps, he had only postponed it.

By the telepathic bond that Halen had tried so hard to block off, he knew that the hatchling was deep asleep. Mentally, Halen shrunk away from the link and tried to forget about its existence. For the time being, he didn't need to worry about it.

Shuddering, Halen thought back to moment that Impression, or half-Impression, or whatever it had been, had taken place. The urge to look, merely to _look_ and forge the bond between dragon and rider had been extreme. The siren call that he had felt, fortunately, had faded, but the compulsion was still there, although greatly reduced. Before, the sensation had been indescribable, but now, it was a merely a dull itch that he had no intention of scratching. Perhaps the urge to use the mental bond, so tenuously forged, would become stronger when the dragon was awake.

Sight had returned to the hunter, although rippled sporadically. Surrounding him was the ubiquitous black of night, however, not a total, all-consuming black. At least one of Pern's dual moons was full tonight, and light shown through the lone window of the stone-clean room. In the dim illumination, Halen could tell that it was the same room as before, as dull and characterless as ever. Something was missing, though.

As before, Halen duly noted, he had been dumped straight on the bed fully clothed. And one boot still weighed slightly than the other. Also, breathing was harder, somehow. Perhaps a side effect of the fellis sleep he had just come out of. The hunter made the unconscious check for weapons and supplies. He obviously had no weapons, he had come here without them, and as for supplies... That was what was missing. His pack wasn't here. The dragonmen had taken it away. They were getting wiser. Halen grinned as he jiggled one foot, its movement inhibited by the reassuring weight of the boot. Not quite wise enough, though.

Halen felt rested. He had everything he ever would get from this room, it seemed. There was no time to waste, then. It was night, so Penet would likely be waiting for him. No reason to keep a friend waiting and worried. Halen slung his feet over the side of his bed and slipped off one boot. He reached down and carefully worked his fingers around the bottom of the thick-soled shoe, removing the bottom with some difficulty. His combat knife glinted in the moonlight.

The door was problematic, Halen decided. With nothing but a knife, a belt, and his clothes to work with, a thick wooden door might as well have been a stone wall. Halen's bare fists would have been much more effective on the door than the blade of a knife. Even a sword wouldn't have been terribly useful. Perhaps an axe, cudgel, or polearm would have done the job, but not a knife. He could dismantle the hinges, which were conveniently on Halen's side, but there was, perhaps, a faster way.

Fortunately, Halen knew how the door was locked. He'd seen it several times as people (and food) had entered and exited his room. There was a simple locking bar on the other side. If he could lift it, he could get out. And he a way of doing that, too. The door, as all doors did, fit into its frame in such a way that there was space around the edges. Halen slid his knife under one side of the door and pushed upwards.

The blade traced the frame for some distance uninhibited before meeting the solid weight of the bar. Halen, slowly, began to lift. The weight was enormous! The hunter used both hands and continued to thrust upwards with the knife. This might be a bad idea. The blade could only withstand so much. It might snap if he overburdened it. It was his only tool, after all. Perhaps he should try taking the door off of its hinges...

Halen felt the solid weight of the bar pass over the edge of the half-collar that had held it in place. Fortunately, the bar was narrower than the cuffs installed. The bar hit the ground with a dull, muffled thud. Slowly, the prisoner turned the knob, and pushed the door outwards, opening the gate to freedom.

The door opened, and the other side was just as dull and drab as the interior. The fallen bar partially restricted movement, but Halen slipped out without problems, slowly replacing the wooden plank that had held him prisoner, closing the door as he did so. It was best to create the illusion that he, nameless to them, was still their captive.

The stone hall he was in was just as badly illuminated as the interior of the impromptu prison. The dim light of dual moons had been replaced by that of a lone, dying basket of glows in the far end of the hall. Halen recalled that there was another window to the outside just at the end of the corridor, providing some light, but he still hardly see to other side of the passage.

Amazing, from what Halen could make out, the knife blade did not seem to have visibly bent or deformed. A good, thick metal blade. Having endured days in the bottom of a boot, with the wearer's weight often on it, and then a minute or so of work more befitting an axe. At the moment, this knife was his only tool, his only weapon, and his only ally. In one deft movement, it was hanging naked from his belt, its rightful sheath missing. It was time to go.

Yesterday, Halen had done his best to memorize the route he had been forced on to get to the Hatching Ground. He now found that, as he had expected, he barely remembered anything. He would have to make a guess or two. Sighing, the escaping captive began the trek back.

Having cleared the corridor, Halen frooze. He could make out the prone figure of another person, lying on a stone bench. Halen had broken out of a room not a dragonlength away. If he had made just a little more noise, he might have waken this sleeping man. The thud of the locking bar, the whiny creak of the hinges, the clunk as the bar had been replaced – all now seemed glaringly obvious and painfully loud.

Silently, the hunter approached the silhouette. The figure stirred in his sleep, and Halen lept back in surprise. As the sleeper shifted towards Halen, the hunter recognized the face: that of bluerider D'sen, eyes still tight in sleep. The man who had sworn to pursue Halen, and declared a petty grudge against the man of Salt's Clearing. He was keeping a vigil, watching for the coming escape. And, ironically enough, had been caught sleeping on that probably self-imposed vigil. The hunter tiptoed past the dragonman.

_Another day, bluerider,_ thought Halen. _Another day. Perhaps we'll be rivals, you and I. But, for now, I'll be off._ Halen looked stared down the next corridor, ominously darkened by the night.The hunter gave one last look at the bluerider, supressing a grin, before launching himself quietly and quickly down the hall. _Another day._

_----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- _

_Shards, Shells, and Damnation! Finally! _Halen couldn't have found his way through this Weyr to save his life. The fresh night air felt good on his face. Admittedly, he _had_ found his pack, so it hadn't been a total waste of time. On the other hand, it had to be at least an hour later.

By some unbelievable stroke of luck, Halen had, in his stumbling through the darkness, come across a room with a lone table, chairs around it. On it, the contents of his pack had been spread out. That had been the high point of the evening, so far. The low point, as it were, had been rest of his time in Benden. Having not even the faintest inkling as to where the exit was, Halen had wasted quite a bit of energy, time, and patience trying to find his way through the maze-like corridors. What was worse, despite the hour (obviously late night), all the weyrfolk weren't asleep yet. Twice, the hunter had only narrowly dodged an encounter with late-night workers and revelers. Once, he had also almost stumbled into the main Living Caverns by mistake. He also had a sneaking suspicion that he had exited through a low, wide window, rather than a door. Regardless of what could have happened, though, he was outside now.

There had been a clear path downwards, leading into the Weyrbowl, although it had seemed natural rather than intentionally cut. Rather steep, too. Still, he had taken care with his footing, and he was fine. For some reason, though, the half-length climb downwards had seemed extremely taxing. Perhaps too much flailing around in the dark had affected his stamina. Or perhaps fellis sleep had this effect.

Halen stopped to rest a moment, sitting down. He didn't have any water, and a few day's trail rations, but he wanted neither. At the moment, he would like nothing better than a good cup of _klah_ from Salt's. The tavern at Salt's, however uncreatively named, knew how to brew a cup of _klah_. Unfortunately, Halen had long since consumed the last skin-full he had obtained. _On your feet, hunter_, Halen though to himself. _If you can get out of this, you'll be sipping _klah _soon enough. _Even if it wasn't Salt's Clearing _klah. _The dragonmen would look for him at Salt's Clearing first, he had no doubt. Halen stood.

Nothing but a silhouette against the bright moons, the watch-dragon was visible against the sky. Halen couldn't make it out very well, but the dragon's figure seemed curled up, asleep. Also, he might have imagined it, but the beast seemed blue in hue. A blue dragon asleep on the job. With a smirk, Halen remembered the sleeping D'sen. _Happens to the worst of us._ There was nothing but a few hundreds of lengths between himself and Penet, and with Penet came a way out.

Having caught his breath, Halen rose and dusted the bottom of his trousers. Nothing but a few hundreds of lengths. He had escaped the Weyr. The dragon that kept watch was now asleep. Nothing but a few hundreds of lengths, perhaps a thousand lengths. That thought was heartening. Energy renewed by a hope of escape, Halen launched himself whole-heartedly at the exit to the ring of mountains.

The Weyrbowl seemed endless, but, always, Halen's objective was in the distance. For at least two hundred lengths, the Bowl was stone-clean, purged of the greenery that was said to draw the hated Thread, but slowly, Halen started to see out greenry, almost black in the feeble moonlight. The grass and underbrush slowly grew taller, brushing against the hunter's thighs. After too many days of bare stone, there was _green_ again. And then came soft murmuring sound of running water.

Halen had heard that the massive snow drifts of the white-capped peaks near Benden and further north, near Salt's, melted into small streams, and that dozens of these tiny streams coalesced into rivers, which further combined into Benden River, which supplied much of the water to the mighty Eastern River. The Weyr found its water in these natural streams. Benden River, or the majority of it, was born near the Weyr, not five hundred lengths outside of the Weyrbowl. It was this river that he had circled on a map, drawn on the back of an old hide. At sound, the mere sound, of this river, Halen took heart.

If he had been running before, the hunter now moved at a speed that the best runner would have envied. The underbrush grew thicker, livelier, almost thick enough to impede movement. The water gurgled and murmured and spoke to itself, oblivious to time of day, inky and opaque in the dark of night. Always changing and yet always the same. The paradox of the river. Halen fell to his knees at the bank and looked up at the twin moons, thanking them for their guiding light. He hadn't realized how parched his throat was. Cupping his hands, Halen lifted the dark waters to his mouth and drank what didn't slip from his grasp. The water was cool, clean, and refreshing, as a mountain river's water should be. He drank thrice more, filled both his waterskins, and rinsed his face. The cuts on his face, still not fully healed from shaving, tickled from the pressure as the water rolled down them. Spirit renewed, Halen turned his eye down the flow of the river and started to trace it.

The river widened, slowly, gradually, but steadily. Surely, he must have walked another hour. The vegetation beneath the hunter's feet grew denser, but the feeling stimulated, rather than impeded Halen's movements. The sound of running was monotonous, omnipresent, and reassuring. Penet must be around here, somewhere. This night trip by the river reminded Halen of one particular trip when he Penet had been swimming one evening in that particular river by the cave just outside of Salt's Clearing. It was always so peaceful just there, by the side of the river. Time and troubles slipped away with the water. Fishing and swimming, so many times, sometimes alone, sometimes just with Penet, sometimes with another acquaintance or two who just wanted to get away.

It was then, just as that memory crossed Halen's mind, that the young hunter once again wondered if he would, when all was said and done, find peace.

The river continued endlessly, steadily widening. He must have walked a thousand lengths! Where was Penet? Twice a stitch developed in Halen's side, and twice he had to stop to rest. Where was his stamina? He could stalk a mountain beast for hours before he tired. What had happened?

He had must have been walking for three hours. The pain in his side was back. Halen eased himself down, next to the bank. He was tired, not only in his feet, but also actually _sleepy_, despite having gotten what must have been twelve hours of straight sleep _after_ a full night of sleep. But it was night. People slept at night. Surely resting his eyes for a moment couldn't do any harm. He'd search for Penet after a moment of rest. After all, his feet were tired and worn out anyway...

"Are you awake, Halen?"

Halen was awake and at the ready immediately. Where was he? He seemed to lying on his back, on a flat surface, facing the sky, still night. The world was rocking. He was in a boat, small, essentially curved raft. What had happened? He had fallen asleep. Only one person would have put him in a boat down Benden River. Also, only one person knew his name. And he recognized that voice. Halen sat up, causing the boat to shake. "Penet!"

Sure enough, his fellow hunter was seated with a long pole, poking and occasionally prodding, shift the boat. A number of wrapped packages were laying strewn about the deck of the small dingy. Penet grinned in his friendly way. "I found you, Halen, lying face up, on the bank of the river about a half-hour ago. I tried to wake you, but you just wouldn't for some reason. So, I did what I imagined you'd want me too. I borrowed this boat from a fishcrafthall near Bitra. The flow of the river will guide us. Nothing to worry about. Enough about what I've been doing, though. How'd it go?"

Halen grinned back. "About the exact reverse as I would have hoped. Are you sure you feel fine guiding this boat, though? You can't have slept for much more than a few hours."

Penet grinned. "Got here at nightfall yesterday, or, judging by the moons, maybe the day before yesterday. Thereabouts, anyway. Had a good half-day of sleep. I'm fine. You don't give me enough credit, Halen."

Halen's facial features contorted at that news. "I could have done this _yesterday?_ I would have liked to know that. How did you get here in a day and a half?"

It was Penet's turn to look surprised. "Did you lose track of time in the Weyr, old friend? This is the fourth night since the Search, and it took me two and a half days to reach where you pointed out on the map. Speaking of which," Penet drew out the map, "next time, get a better map, if you would. This isn't entirely accurate, and generally _here_," Penet waved his hand, "isn't very precise. I guessed you'd be close to the Weyr, since you had gone to Benden..."

Halen interrupted the good-natured complaint. "Did you say it had been four evenings, including the one on the day I left?" Penet nodded. "Yes."

"That's impossible. I was in a room with a window. I know when each day came and ended. I hardly sleep..." It struck Halen then. His voice dropped. "Shards, shells, and damnation. I was asleep for a day and a half."

Penet looked at Halen curiously. "You'd better tell me the whole story." The gazes of the two friends locked, and Penet saw could see the wear in Halen's dark pupils. "Alright, Penet. You deserve no less."

Halen recanted what had happened from since the moment they had separated at Salt's Clearing, point by point, until the sky began to lighten and the moons fade. Penet listened in silence; the only noises to complement and interrupt the tale were that of the river and the occasional creak as Penet _maneuvered _the pole to guide the craft.

When Halen finally finished, Penet remained silent for a time more. At length, he said, "We'll be in Bitra by noonday. The current will take us there. There's a Gather at Bitra, so we should be able to take shelter there. I doubt the dragonmen will be able to pick us out in a crowd like that."

Halen started again. "Why is there a Gather at Bitra?" he demanded. "This early in the Turn? Right after Turnover?" At the beginning of every Turn, there were Turnover festivities, even at Salt's Clearing. Harpers collected petitions, food and drink were available in excess, and people celebrated the hope of the new Turn. Gathers usually didn't start until the end of the winter monthes, or at least, not this far northwest.

"Bitra had two falls recently, including one during the normal Turnover celebrations. The Lord Holder, with the approval of his peers, I'm sure, decided to hold an early Gather instead of the normal Turnover and post-Turnover celebration. So we're in luck. It's surprising, you're right, but I didn't know about it either until I actually arrived at Bitra and found the whole place in an uproar."

Halen blessed his recent good fortune again. Finding his pack, a watchdragon asleep at its post, and a Gather at Bitra, earlier than normal. Everything seemed to be working in his favor. And there was something else that might be done, too.

"I've an idea, Penet."

"What?"

"Whenever the dragon," (Halen couldn't bring himself to say "_my"_) "starts to wake up, I can drink some fellis to go to sleep. That way, I'll always be asleep when its awake, and it will always be asleep when I'm awake. We can get a large quantity of Fellis during the Gather; especially since its become so cheap after Healer Hall started farming the stuff in Southern."

"Hm..." Penet mused it over. "Dragon's aren't exactly nocturnal, Halen. I've never even _heard_ of a nighttime fall, and Dragons always fight Thread during the day. If you mean to be asleep while its awake and vice-versa, you're going to be awake during the evening, and perhaps the early morning."

"I can survive with that arrangement, at least for a little while. I'll worry about my own well-being. All you need to worry about is getting hold of the fellis. It's a common tool, so they shouldn't ask to many questions. And if Healer Hall gets suspicious, Bitra is the perfect place to obtain some items in a shadier manner. Either way, I'll pay for it. Did you pick my pouch of marks while you were retrieving some of my things?"

"That's not all I grabbed." Penet, his mischievous and friendly smile shining on his face, pulled back the cloth on one of the packages on the deck. A bow, quiver, and Halen's own sword of steel lay gleaming at two hunters' feet. Halen broke into a grin.

"Thoughtful of you." The two laughed. Halen's expression suddenly became more serious. "I'll be in danger every step of the way. If you come with me, Penet, you'll have to fight with me. We probably won't be killing anyone, but we'll be fighting dragonmen, if not Hold guards."

"I'll see this through to the end, Halen, and don't ever think otherwise. I don't have any other real friends. You're all I've got." Penet grasped Halen's hand. "And as long as doing this, you're not doing it alone." Suddenly, in another spontaneous change of topic, Penet said. "We've got some hours yet before sunrise. Now, they say dragonriders are a breed apart. You were in the Weyr for a few days. What did you think?"

"Mostly, I talked to D'sen, but let me tell you, Penet, it's ..."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The prescient state had returned, and feeling of discontent and chaos grew. In the East, in Benden Weyr, something else had gone wrong. Terribly, terribly, wrong. Not just the original problem, he knew, but something else had as well. Something should have been fixed in these past two days, and it hadn't. So, unopposed, the problem grew, like one of the evil Thread; once burrowed into the fertile soil, it reproduced and multiplied at an alarming rate.

Once again, sight, and now he realized hearing, taste, smell, feel, all had vanished, dwarfed before the much greater stream of knowledge that the prescience was feeding him. The problem was growing, and he yearned to fix it, but, for some reason, the prescience held him back. He wasn't the right person. The right person, at the right place, at the right time, was meant to solve Benden Weyr's current dilemma, and he was not the right person. Besides, he knew, as the prescience told him, that Benden Weyr was far to the east. How would he go so far so quickly?

There was nothing he could, said the prescience. Nothing to do but watch and wait. Watch and wait. Whatever will be will be. Time, and only time, tells the absolute future. As quickly as it had come, the prescience faded, and memory, along with all five senses, returned.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"The Hatchling tells us that his rider is still asleep." F'lar had been using "Hatchling" as though it were a name more and more often now. F'nor, and everyone else who he spoke of the problem too, knew exactly who and what he was talking about when he used "Hatchling" instead of a name. Over the past few days, F'lar, F'nor, Tirean, and Lessa had somehow between them managed to not stifle, but actually prevent any and all rumor about the hatchling whose rider hadn't appeared yet. For those extremely few who asked, including the Weyrling Master, the answer had been that the rider was ill for some yet undetermined reason and was resting in an independent room. No, we don't know when he'll be fit to get out of bed, much less come to training. I doubt its life-threatening. And perhaps another ad-libbed phrase or two.

Fortunately, no one seemed much interested in the Hatchling or its rider, as there was fall over Benden Hold tomorrow. Also, no one made the connection between the reluctant candidate who had come in two days before the Hatching. Reluctance prior to Hatching was both documented, precedented, and understood, but after Impression? Unthinkable.

In any event, the eye of the Weyr was off of the nameless, holdless hunter who had fought F'nor at Salt's Clearing and helped Fal'an on the Hatching Ground sands.

"Even if he is still asleep," broke in Master Healer Tirean, "it has been almost three days now. He's likely slipped into a natural sleep by now, and we should be able to wake him. If we can't, then's he's somehow done something far more dire than I first surmised. But, barring that extremity, you should be able to talk to him."

"Very well," said F'lar in a business-like tone. As the four of them, R'bas, F'nor, Tirean, and he neared the corridor with the hunter's room, F'lar seemed to become more and more stern. "Now remember, we have to be diplomatic about this. If we..." The Weyrleader abruptly stopped. "I was wondering why we couldn't find D'sen in his quarters this morning."

R'bas, grinning, approached the sleeping figure of bluerider D'sen, seemingly comatose on a bench, and whispered something into the dragonman's ear. D'sen's eye's popped open and he looked around the room wildly. "Good of you to join us, bluerider," said F'nor nonchalantly, suppressing a smile. F'lar, a smile hinting at his lips, continued. "As I was saying, if we can talk to the hunter today, we have to be extremely diplomatic. Before, this was merely a moral question, but now it is far more complicated, and it is imperative that he genuinely agree to be a dragonman. If not, one of two things could happen. The first is that he openly rejects the offer, and we try again tomorrow. The other is that he pretends to agree with the intent to sabotage the Weyr. The longer we keep him locked in that room, I'm afraid, the more his resentment for us will grow, and the more trouble we'll have showing him the truth behind what we're saying."

F'nor began to speak. "If we really wanted to sate him, we _could_ just send him back to Salt's Clearing, and periodically go and ask him if he's changed his mind. Leave it to his dragon to talk to him in the intervening time, and convince him that way."

"That's a thought," remarked F'lar. "Unfortunately, if we do that, we might never see him again. He might bolt off so some dark corner of the Snowy North where we'll never find him. Or he might even kill himself, though I doubt that." The Weyrleader started walking again, and his four companions immediately moved to follow him. They reached the door in an amount of time that seemed all too short. Unless Master Healer Tirean's fears were correct, that the foolish young man had hurt or poisoned himself, they would be in a very delicate situation in mere seconds. "Remember everyone, diplomacy." The Weyrleader was sure he saw F'nor glance in D'sen's direction.

R'bas effortlessly removed the locking bar from its position inside the two cuffs. "Did someone change this bar?" he asked, surprised.

"Yes," answered F'nor. "We replaced it a two days ago. The other one was so Thread-bared heavy that one person had trouble lifting it, and given the number of trips the Master Healer made to this room with little or no escort, it was getting troublesome. This one is much lighter."

R'bas shrugged and tossed down the bar, and F'lar, in quick succession, pulled the door open. The only sound was stunned silence as the five surveyed an empty room.

"May I have permission to go after him, Weyrleader?"

D'sen's voice brought F'lar out of his momentary stupor. "No. Come now, D'sen, you know that we have fall tomorrow. The Weyr's hardly under fighting strength, but I'd to know I have every person I can get. It would be a pity if Benden Hold lost a vineyard because you weren't there to stop that one cluster of Thread. Besides, if you were to leave today, right before a Fall, someone might be suspicious."

D'sen remained steadfast. "Alright then, Weyrleader. With your permission, I'll begin following him right after Fall tomorrow."

F'lar gave the bluerider a long, calculating stare. "Very well, then. If you are that intent, then go. You may leave today, as it will be easier to track him earlier." F'lar gestured generally towards the west. "But I still fully expect you here at Fall tomorrow, understood?"

D'sen nodded, grinning. "As you say, Weyrleader."

/ Well, that's the chapter. I hope no one was expecting a whopper. I'm sorry this took so long, but I was having a very hard time writing this chapter. I actually starting writing it once, then scrapped it and started over. It's only ten pages, but its ten pages that I think I wrote well, and, as a result, then pages that I am satisfied with. I've still left a number of questions unanswered, and, unless I slipped up, I don't think I revealed the color of the Hatchling from the previous chapter. In any event, I hope you enjoyed this chapter.

Also, in a freak accident, this chapter took me **_exactly_** 15 days to write. Down to the second. If you don't believe me, you can check the Drafting times in the beginning.

Until next time, The ACS Dude /


	7. Chapter 6: Bro

/ Author's Comments:

After another month (sorry in advance to those who I've kept waiting), the sixth chapter of The Rogue of Pern has been concluded. I renew the assertion that the disclaimer in the first chapter applies to the entire story. I own the characters I came up with. Everything else is the property of Anne McCaffery or associated writers and publishers, probably DelRey included. (Speaking honestly, if I owned the Dragonriders of Pern series, people would by writing fanfiction about my work, and not the other way around.)

Believe it or not, I re-read the entire _Dragonriders of Pern_ anthology, meaning _Dragonflight_, _Dragonquest_, and _The White Dragon_. I've also started to re-read the short stories in _A Gift of Dragons_. Those would be: _The Smallest Dragonboy_, _The Girl Who Heard Dragons, Runner of Pern_ (which I intend to skip), and _Ever the Twain_. Once again, I am drawing most of my information regarding Search (for the non-Weyrbred) from _Dragonflight_ and _Ever the Twain_. I draw any information regarding standing at Impression for the Weyrbred from _The Smallest Dragonboy_.

Before I begin the chapter, I'd like to say a word or two about _A Gift of Dragons_. Not only does it contain three excellent short stories (I don't care much for _Runner of Pern_, it being basically devoid of dragons), but each of these stories is also illustrated in black and white, much to the credit of the artist. I really recommend the book for anyone who doesn't have it.

If you always read through my comments prior to the story, sorry for prattling on for so long, but I do have one more thing I'd like to point out about _A Gift of Dragons_. The cover of the book features a mountain terrain against a yellow-gold background, with seven fighting dragons, at least one of every color, airborne. The picture is structured in such a way that it draws your gaze to these magnificent creatures, but the painting contains much more. On the ground, on the edge of a cliff, lies a bejeweled chest, lid thrown open, from which two more dragons are emerging. Standing before this chest is a young, blond women in a purple dress, with her hands flung into the air, striking an exultant pose, as if to say "You're free." I can't help but wonder if the young women was meant to symbolize Anne McCaffery, introducing dragons to **_our_** world, a true gift, for the first time.

Anyway, having made my comments criminally long, I give you, without further ado...

Chapter Information:

Drafting Began: 1:20:50 PM (GMT), November 22, 2006

Drafting Ended: 5:32:12 PM (GMT), November 26, 2006

Uploaded: 2:35:40 PM (GMT), November 28, 2006

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The Rogue of Pern

Chapter 6: Bro

Benden Weyr

Present Pass, 16.1.17

Pre-Dawn (Benden Time)

"That's Bitra Hold, and no other, or I'm not a man of Salt's Clearing. I spent the better portion of a year there once. I'd know it anywhere."

"Pardon me for asking, Halen, but what other major hold could that," Penet waved at the massive structure, "be?"

The hunter, and now fugitive from the Weyr, shrugged nonchalantly. "Doesn't matter. That's Bitra, and that was my point."

The two friends had returned their borrowed boat to the fishcrafthall, though the hall was unoccupied, its residents probably having already risen to set out for the Gather, if they weren't camping in Bitra outright. In either case, they had tied the dingy to the hall's small pier with a note of thanks and a small sum of rent, and had been on their way.

The hall, though downriver of the hold, was very nearby. Penet, while Halen had still been unconscious, had guided the craft off of mighty Benden River and down onto one of its minor runoffs, much closer to Bitra Hold. Now, just before the break of day, they were standing before the mighty stone shelter. Amazingly, even at this early hour, travelers and traders were passing through the gate to the outer hold with intermittent frequency.

Penet took a step towards the gate to hold before Halen placed one hand on the hunter's shoulder, stopping him.

"Penet," Halen whispered urgently at him, "you've done everything I've asked you too, which is probably already too much as it is. You don't need to come a step further in my presence. Do you really want to continue on following me?"

Penet stared at him. Two sets of dark eyes, each deep with concern, met each other. Halen's fellow responded, "Before I answer that, you answer me this. Are you sure of what you're doing? Being a dragonrider is a great honor. Not to mention, by the void that spawned us all, you'd have a **dragon**, which is honor and joy all unto its own."

Halen responded instantaneously. "Yes. I am sure that what I am doing is _right_. I could never live as a dragonrider."

Penet sighed and drew his hunter's medallion out of tunic. "If this," he held up the metal disk to the light, "was all that we had in common, I'd see your venture through to the end. Out of the bond of respect and honor that all Salt's Clearing hunters share. But as it is, I'm not only your peer, I'm your **_friend_**. You're all the family I've got, and I know I'm all the family you've got." Technically, Penet _did_ have a stepmother and a baby half-sister, but they did not live in Salt's Clearing, and Penet never saw them. Halen was as close to a brother as Penet would ever have. "I even understand your reasons, and maybe my decision would have been the same, faced with the same problem. Halen, I'd follow you through a Threadfall and then _between_. I'm coming with you as long as your resolve holds."

To his friend's surprise, Halen began to chuckle. "Penet, I'm not the only one who has said over the years that you should have been a harper. You always have the right words."

Penet chuckled in response. "Yes, but no good with any instrument. I'd think myself better as a tanner." That was true enough. Penet had a reputation for his leatherworking skills. After journeyman Leault had passed away, hunters would sooner approach Penet than one of the three clunk-headed, dimglow apprentice tanners.

Halen nodded, agreeing amiably with his friends comment. Then the renegade hunter's tone changed. "When we are inside the Hold, or in the presence of anyone, _especially_ anyone who might be linked to a dragonrider, do not use my name. They don't know it, I and have no wish for them too."

"If that's what you need, old friend."

"One more thing. Hold out your right arm, and roll back your sleeve."

To Penet's astonishment, Halen drew his belt knife from its sheath, and, without a moment's hesitation, slit the middle finger of his right hand. With one deft motion, he drew a line of his own blood across Penet's forearm, running from elbow to the back of Penet's hand. Halen then wiped his knife on his tunic, resheated it, and began to suck on his bleeding finger.

Penet smiled, amusement apparent on his face. "Why did you do that, old friend?"

Halen returned the smile. "You said it yourself. To each other, we're family. And this just seemed... appropriate, somehow.

Penet laughed. "Alright then." He withdrew his own knife, and mimicked Halen's procedure exactly, even sucking on the wounded digit once he finished drawing the line of blood.

Halen chuckled again at Penet's display as he rolled his sleeve back down on his right arm. It was rarely outside of Penet's company that he chuckled, he realized. "I'll tell you what, Penet. If anyone asks, we're brothers, blood brothers, from a tannercrafterhall north of Benden. Agreed."

Penet nodded. "Agreed. Brothers."

"Alright, then. Let's go. Bro." Halen half-laughed as he appended the last syllable to his sentence. The resemblance between the two had always been uncanny (those not decisively familial), and they'd always felt like family. Many of the denizens of Salt's looked similar anyway: Dark hair and brown eyes were essentially ubiquitous amongst the hunters, to the where blond or red hair looked unusual. Penet, some turns older than Halen, was only just shorter and of the same build, stature, and general appearance. The two, for the duration of their stay at Bitra, would be brothers.

Together, the two covered the last length of ground to the hold. They entered without being stopped or challenged by the guards.

After a day, the cut the middle finger of Penet's right hand had healed cleanly, a scab formed and matured. The line of blood that Halen had drawn on the same arm persisted. On the second day, the scab had already vanished, leaving a thin, white scar.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Benden Weyr

Present Pass, 16.1.19

Early Morning (Benden Time)

D'sen stopped dead in the hallway as he saw F'nor, his business-like stance far from his normal, easygoing expression. D'sen had only served under F'nor for a brief time, during the disastrous Search that had led bronzerider's T'non's wing to Salt's Clearing. With T'non badly scored and out of action from a fall four days past, F'lar had briefly appointed F'nor as acting Wingleader, retaining R'bas as the only Wingsecond. D'sen had found the brownrider far more approachable and amicable than a bronzerider, as well as somebody who used humor and diplomacy before coercion. (A tactic the D'sen had sadly found himself, time and time again, unable to execute successfully.)

Unfortunately, this was not F'nor-the-brownrider who faced him, this was the Wingsecond, F'lar's right hand and confidant in almost every matter. Most treated this F'nor as an extension of F'lar. As had been true all too often of late, F'nor's lips were contorted into an uncharacteristic and somewhat unsettling concerned frown. D'sen could guess what this was about.

Two days ago, D'sen had been permitted to go after a dragonrider-gone-rogue: the young man who had rejected the Weyr. He had spent the day astride his faithful blue Sayath, spiraling and circling the path north to Salt's Clearing, not encountering a soul. Eventually, he had landed in the clearing, under the pretense of delivering the news of bronzerider G'ron's success during the hatching, now two days past. His mother, who had unfortunately missed the event, was overwhelmed at the news as well was all of Salt's Clearing. No one asked about the _other_ boy, though the memory must have been fresh in everyone's mind. In retrospect, though, the trip to the Clearing seemed foolish; it would have taken the foolhardy boy, without rest, at least two, probably closer to three, days to reach his home on foot.

Yesterday, D'sen had, along with the rest of T'non's wing (under R'bas, as T'non was still indisposed) fought Thread over Benden Hold, on the Weyr's very doorstep. After four hours of hard riding and one extremely minor Threadscore, D'sen and Sayath had retired to their Weyr for a full night of much deserved rest. They had gone to bed early, and risen equally early in the morning. The Weyr was still exhausted from the events of the previous day, so D'sen hadn't expected to met as he left to continue his search for his sevenday-long nemesis. The bluerider was already dressed in heavy wherhide riding gear, ready to retrace the path that he had already flown over a dozen times: that from the Weyrbowl to Salt's Clearing. F'nor's appearance might mean a change of plans.

"Greetings, bluerider," started F'nor.

D'sen saluted as he was addressed. "Good morning, Wingsecond. To what do I owe the honor of your visit?" F'nor had clearly been waiting for him. The brownrider wasn't here to pass the time of day.

F'nor smiled weakly. "The Weyrleader requests your presence in the council chamber." The brownrider lowered his voice to a whisper, though there was no one around. "I think he fancies that the boy headed west, to Bitra, rather than north, to Salt's Clearing." With that, the Wingsecond turned on his heel and led the bluerider to the inner chamber, though both knew the way perfectly well.

F'nor, with great courtesy, held open the door into the chamber, gesturing for D'sen to enter. D'sen did so, and F'nor slipped in behind him, and the door slid shut with a resounding bang.

D'sen looked around the room. Sitting across the room from the both of them was none other than Weyrleader F'lar. Yesterday, all the Wingleaders had met here, discussing the Threadfall, dismissed by this bronzeriders remark of "Good hunting." He and three others had sat in this room during the first day the mysterious Salt's Clearing hunter had spent at the Weyr. Today, the room was all but empty. D'sen glanced at the empty, traditional stone chair of the Weyrwoman. F'lar followed his gaze.

"My apologies, bluerider, for Lessa's absence. She is still sleeping at the moment, unfortunately, as I'm sure she'd have a sensible word or two to say. I have quite a few of my own, but I may have missed something. Firstly, what is your plan for tracking down our rogue rider today, D'sen?"

"Well, Weyrleader, I was planning on making another few sweeps from the Weyr to Salt's Clearing, and, failing that, return the Weyr before starting in a spiral sweep pattern..." F'lar cut him off.

"I have a change of plans for you, D'sen. You're to fly straight from the Weyr to Bitra Hold. As you probably know, there's Gather at Bitra. _He,_" D'sen knew that the stressed adjective referred to the one missing rider, "might be on the path to the hold, or, perhaps, in the hold itself. I doubt that you, D'sen, or your hawk-eyed Sayath, would have missed _him_ on the route to Salt's Clearing, especially with most of the terrain from here to there being flat ground with sparse tree cover. Therefore, we must surmise that he has gone elsewhere. Now, once you get to Bitra Hold, if you haven't spotted him already, look for him on foot."

D'sen realized that F'lar's reasoning was sound, and that his plans for the day had just changed. D'sen realized that F'lar was looking him straight in the eye.

"If, _IF, _you find him, bespeak me and I will come and talk to him. We can't simply capture him. A rebellious dragonrider would be more disastrous than none at all. And we can't risk alienating him any further." F'lar sighed, rubbed his eyes, and sat down in the traditional Weyrleader's chair. "One sevenday ago, I would have done everything differently. But one sevenday ago, however much I wish it wasn't, is in the past. It already happened. Even timing it can't change what I've already done. Now, everything is totally different. He's Impressed, which means he belongs in the Weyr. It's no longer his own life or wellbeing that hangs in the balance. Remember, if you find him, send for me. Don't be fool enough to act on your own."

D'sen winced as he thought of the several diplomatic incidents that he had caused in the past. The bluerider took a deep breathe and tried to ask a question and divert the conversation topic away from the intimated warning.

"Any luck contacting him via his dragon?"

"The hatchling has given us the same reports that it had from the beginning. Whenever the young one awakes, his rider is deep asleep. The hatchling can sense that he is _there_, and alive, but, his lifemate being asleep, can't communicate with him."

"So, no help from that end."

"Perhaps. But keep this in mind: he probably dosed himself with fellis again twice since he did originally. He is probably running low, if not out, of the drug. He may at Bitra in an effort to purchase more. Check with whatever wagons and stalls Healer Hall have present. They might be able to point you in the right direction."

D'sen nodded, and then saluted the Weyrleader. "If that's all, sir, I'll be on my way." The bluerider turned to leave.

"Wait." D'sen froze at F'lar's call. "D'sen, you don't have a good record dealing with matters such as these. I've got more than half a mind to send someone else along with you, or replace you outright. You have to understand the seriousness of this situation. Our escapee has proven to be clever, resourceful, covert, and more determined than most I've seen. I can't emphasize enough that you can't aggravate him more than we already have. I trust you to use your good judgment, D'sen, and not to be rash. I think, I _hope_ that you'll do the right thing."

The bluerider nodded again, saluted, and strode purposefully out of the chamber. Only after his footsteps had faded from the hall did F'lar ask his half-brother: "What do you think?"

"I think he'll do just fine. I have confidence in him. With any luck, by the end of the week, we'll have brought back our renegade rider, and taught D'sen a lesson in caution and diplomacy."

"Are you sure we shouldn't send R'bas along with him?"

"F'lar, he'll handle this on his own. He understands how serious it is that the boy walked out on the Weyr and on his dragon. D'sen might have a notion or two about vengeance, but he has his priorities straight, I'm sure."

"I hope you're right."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Yes, now that you mention it, I do recall someone who matches that description. He was here not two minutes before you arrived. He bought a skin of fellis, yes, along with a whole other mass of medical supplies. Not cheap, either. I think he said he was a Benden tanner, trying to earn a little extra on the side as a trader."

That knocked D'sen straight out of his bored stupor. A thousand question burst into the bluerider's mind. How close to two minutes ago? What other supplies? Had he been alone?

One query fought its way to the top of his mind, which he directed towards the apprentice Healer. "Where is he?"

Bitra was packed with thousands of people during Gather. Those these numbers thinned to hundreds this early during the day, the inner and outer Hold were still dotted with stalls and people.

"Certainly, my good man. He hasn't left the plaza yet. He's right over there." The Healer gestured at a tall man garbed in brown leather – the color of tannercrafthall – an equally brown pack slung across his back. Though he couldn't see the man's face, D'sen recognized the height and stature of the man, as well as the dark hair color, to be roughly the same as that of his quarry's. Before the apprentice even finished his sentence, D'sen had begun to bolt towards the man.

After a brief flight with Sayath, keeping eyes peeled for any sign of the hunter, D'sen had arrived at Bitra, just as the hold was starting to wake. The watch captain, no doubt on the tail end of his shift, had been startled by the sudden appearance of a blue dragon and had come out to meet D'sen. The bluerider introduced himself and stated clearly that he required no ceremony (a wingleader could request to have his presence made known to the Lord Holder), and was just here for the gather. D'sen then dismounted and left Sayath to sunbathe on a nearby cliff.

D'sen had spent more than an hour going from stall to booth to wagon, keeping his eyes peeled and occasionally asking a question or two about a "friend" whom he was looking for. Healer Hall, garbed in emerald green, had made themselves surprisingly scare during the Gather, and D'sen had actually had trouble locating their representatives. Once he actually did track down Healer Hall's stall, their responses to his inquiries weren't much more encouraging. Only one journeyman seemed to remember seeing someone that might fit the renegade's description, but he had seen him around noon one day past, so that wasn't any help. The young man was reportedly sleeping at that time. It seemed like the Weyrleader's advice was, though well-intentioned and well-thought-out, ultimately useless. D'sen had all but given up, and privately harbored the idea that the hunter had returned to Salt's Clearing, but decided to give Bitra Hold one more once-over. It seemed to D'sen, given that he had inquired specifically about fellis purchases to every healer, that their missing member wasn't here. He might try back later in the day.

This, however, might turn the entire situation around. "You there!" called the bluerider. The man turned to face D'sen, and the dragonman's nearly exultant gestured faded. The man's eyes, hair, and stature, were the same color, but he was shorter than rider's quarry, with an older, narrower face, and clearly different features. He wasn't the rogue weyrling.

"Yes?" asked the figure.

"My mistake," D'sen said, his eyes now downcast with failure. "I mistook you for a friend of mine."

The man shrugged off the apology and went back to browsing the goods from a Lemos Forester wagon. D'sen, shoulders slumped, more depressed than ever. Not a clue to go on. They should leave Bitra, and go _between _to Salt's Clearing, maybe timing it to the beginning of the day. They could check back at the Hold later on...

Sayath interrupted D'sen's troubled thoughts. _Mnementh and F'lar ordered us to stay here. Mnementh also reminds us that we're not to time it, and should tell him as soon as we know where the young one is. _The dragon sounded concerned about his rider's depression at the minor setback. Sayath also referred to the rogue with casual indifference, whereas he had been roaring in rage at the hunter only days ago. _He didn't hurt you badly. He could have killed you. Threadfall yesterday was worse. The young one did what he had to to accomplish his goals. I am sad for his dragon, and I am sad for him, but I do not _hate _him._ D'sen was reminded just how rare antipathy was in a dragon. Sayath continued. _Mnementh says to continue searching for _him. _You should._ D'sen sighed.

_I will, _he assured his lifemate. _I will. I just need to get off of my feet for a moment and rest. And I need a drink._ Sayath acknowledged the statement contentedly. His rider stalked off to find a drink.

D'sen, preoccupied with his dragon, didn't notice "tanner's" gaze tracking him as he left the Bitran plaza, just inside the outer Hold. As soon as the rider made himself scarce, Penet, pack stuffed with Healer's supplies, left the foresters' stall to go find Halen.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Halen drained his cup thoughtfully as he listened to his friend. Several drunkards' singing made it difficult to hear Penet's covert whisper.

"He was asking about someone who matches my description who has bought fellis recently. Clever." Halen took another sip. It was just water (from his own waterskin), but, given the number of inebriated Bitrans surrounding him, he was content with the simple drink. The wine here was strong, ruddy stuff, and Halen liked to keep his wits about him. Cheap stuff, too, though Halen was no regular patron of taverns. The bar was packed with early morning (or perhaps to them, late night) customers, but, oddly, the bar seemed to have empty benches and chairs. (Perhaps they had anticipated this, the tavern being the only permanent or semi-permanent-looking drinking facility in the Hold, as he well knew.)

Halen mulled it over, before beginning to nod. "Alright. Move to another table, and keep a fair distance between us. If D'sen spots me, he doesn't need to know we're associated. Stay in my line of sight, though." Penet nodded as Halen returned to his bland, yet oddly satisfying, drink.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

D'sen recognized how the tavern had been built. The owner, whoever that happened to be, had clearly put a door on a cave. At least the man had the curtesy to provide stone benches and chairs, rather than having the patrons sit on stalagmites. Not to mention the wine.

Now, D'sen was rider of Benden Weyr, which protected Benden Hold. Benden Hold had by far the best vineyards and vintners on Pern. Benden Hold, in exchange for protection from the Thread, tithed generously to Benden Weyr its legendary drink. D'sen, therefore, knew good wine, and he could say without hesitation that the glass he had bought from the barman here, during Bitra Gather, contained the weakest, most watered-down drink that had ever passed the bluerider's lips. He had half a mind to go yell at the barman, but Sayath, placid as he sunbathed, reminded D'sen that diplomacy and covertness were the lifeblood of his mission. So, D'sen kept his mouth shut and his curses to himself.

The bluerider took another sip of the stuff. The alcoholic content was there, but the stuff was as bland as water. And D'sen hadn't walked in because he wanted to be inebriated, like some of the heftier patrons now being dragged off of the floor and into the back room. At least he had purchased a goblet, and not a full skin. Come to think of it, this had come at a rather high price for just a lone glass. Trust the Bitrans to deliver under-quality goods for large fees. Though Bitra had always been one of the three holds that tithed to Benden Weyr, even during the last interval, it had always come grudgingly and in small portions. Even during Threadfall, Bitra gave only what it had to to keep Riders patrolling its skies.

D'sen drained the cup, slammed it down, and rose to leave. He couldn't forget that his mission here was to find the hunter. That young man from Salt's Clearing who had escaped so easily. Still, D'sen wanted a drink of wine, first, and he wanted good wine. It was a Gather, after all. Surely, there was a Benden vintner's wagon somewhere. D'sen headed for the closer side door.

"Going somewhere, bluerider?" The voice had been quite corporeal, and quite real. And D'sen knew that voice. The dragonman whirled around to locate the source. Sure enough, sitting at the table closest to the door sat D'sen's quarry: the unnamed hunter from Salt's Clearing. His face was half-concealed by his hood, but he was still wearing the same clothing as he had when he left the Weyr, albeit somewhat muddier. How had D'sen missed him? Too focused on drink, not on his duty. That was why.

_Sayath, bespeak Mnementh. I've found the boy. He's in a tavern in Bitra Hold. As far as I can tell, the only tavern in whole Thread-bared Hold. F'lar should be able to find it._

"Sit, sit." The hunter kicked out an empty chair from beneath the table. "I wouldn't want to keep a dragonman waiting on my account." The boy's voice was low enough so that only D'sen could hear it.

_Canth will come with F'nor, _Sayath informed his rider. That made sense. The Weyrleader of Benden Weyr would never get into the Gather without an elaborate ceremony. F'nor was technically only a brownrider, and could slip through into the Hold without unnecessary and inconvenient fanfare. He just needed to keep the boy here until F'nor arrived. D'sen took the chair offered.

The bluerider forced a grin and said, "Some wine they got around here, eh?"

The hunter took a draft from his own goblet. "I wouldn't know. I bought this outside. Say, you look a little parched." From some fold of his cloak, the young man withdrew another wooden cup and a skin. He poured some liquid into the empty goblet, and then refilled his own. "Rule number of Bitra Hold," began the renegade, "never drink the swill they sell at taverns. _The_ tavern, rather."

"Well," said D'sen, "I expect you're right on that account. I sampled some of the drink here, and I can't say I was impressed."

The hunter gestured at the cup he had poured. "I greatly suspect I have some stronger stuff here. Strongest you'll get at Bitra."

D'sen looked down and the goblet and recognized the clear color of hard liquor, rare drink so far to the east. Perhaps the rogue hadn't been bluffing. He swirled the drink and eyed it suspiciously.

The hunter smiled as he watched the dragonman. "I haven't poisoned that, you know. Here, watch." He drank a deep draft from his own cup, which had been from the same skin, wiping the spilled liquid away with the back of his hand.

D'sen sighed. He had to keep the boy talking. Perhaps he was more inclined to conversation when he had been drinking. The hunter didn't seem to have realized that he was in immediate danger, since D'sen was here. This was hard liquor, too. A few shots of this, and D'sen would probably be as senseless as the fellows on the floor. The bluerider sighed again and took a gulp of the stuff. The things he did for dragonkind.

At first he thought it was as bland as the wine, but he didn't taste the burn of the alcohol. It didn't have much of a taste, either. Why water would be...

"What is this swill? Water?" D'sen looked at the rogue, and realized that the boy was biting his lip. Then it dawned on the bluerider. Even the dragonman couldn't help but crack a smile as he realized he'd been stymied.

"Strongest stuff you'll get in Bitra Hold." The hunter managed to say with a straight face, before he broke into laughter.

After a few chuckles, the young man continued. "I was joking either. This is the best you'll get in this nest of thieves." That inspired another chuckle from D'sen.

_Canth is between_. Sayath informed him. Excellent. He just needed to keep the renegade talking for a minute longer...

Then it struck D'sen that since the rogue was drinking water, he was cold sober. That meant he either was ready to talk terms or he had a sharding good escape plan.

"So," continued the rogue, after taking another draft of water, "what brings you here? No wait," the hunter raised a silencing hand, "let me guess. I'm what brings you here."

D'sen nodded in stolid confirmation. "Are you at least ready to listen to what we have to say?"

"Let me think." The renegade swirled his glass, as though it were potent wine, and took a slow sip. "No. Not really. I'd also be willing to bet that you have already called for help, since you can't subdue me. And," continued the rogue, past D'sen's protest, "that your reinforcements are already _en route_ here. It should take them a few minutes to get here, provided that there wasn't someone else also on the ground in Bitra. I'm cutting it close, but not too close. By the way, I see that you weren't bluffing when you said you'd come after me. Good show. I appreciate the honesty."

With that cryptic praise, the hunter rose from his seat, and with one deft movement, open and slipped out the side door, before D'sen could so much as yelp in protest. Cursing to himself, D'sen lept to his feet, and darted out the door.

The side door led to a dimly-lit alleyway, and there was no sign of the rogue. There was only one path out of the alley, though. D'sen ran down it, and out into the plaza in front of the tavern.

The rogue was no where to be seen. The bluerider swore long and creatively.

_The young one is resourceful_, remarked Sayath. The dragon, for some reason, rarely called humans by their proper names. Under normal circumstances, Sayath would have referred to the hunter as his dragon's rider, but his dragon being yet nameless, the blue was just referring to their quarry as "the young one."

As he broke right, hoping that he had guessed the right path, D'sen told F'nor, via their dragons just what had happened. Then, a thought struck the dragonman. If the boy was awake, then all he had to do was...

_Sayath, bespeak Mnementh. Tell him to tell F'lar to wake the hatchling._

_------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- _

_"_It should take them a few minutes to get here, provided that there wasn't someone else also on the ground in Bitra. I'm cutting it close, but not too close. By the way, I see that you weren't bluffing when you said you'd come after me. Good show. I appreciate the honesty." Halen's mind had been on leaving ever since he had first lain eyes on D'sen. Ironically enough, had Halen let him be, he probably would have peacefully exited the bar on his own. Unfortunately, the renegade rider had been unable to resist a jab or two at the thirsty dragonman. Still, Halen hadn't been lying. This was cutting it a little thin.

The hunter, in one fluid movement, sprung from his chair and whirled out the side door, and, as soon as he feet hit the ground, was sprinting out of the alleyway. As broke out into the open, in outer Bitra Hold, Halen turned left, opened the front door to the tavern, and slipped back in, just as D'sen exited. Fortunately, the barkeep seemed to be elsewhere, or he might have questioned the odd action. Halen casually walked over to his now-empty table, drained both cups of water, and slipped them back into his pack. He sat back down, and, without looking up, motioned to Penet to come over. His friend rose from his table near the front door and joined Halen at the side-door table.

"I was almost afraid that you weren't going to be fast enough to pull that one off."

"So was I, for a moment. Listen, we have to get out of the Hold, or at least stay out of sight."

Bitra Hold's inner Hold was modeled like all Holds: one continuous structure which acted as shelter for the denizens and the central seat of government for the ruling Lord Holder. The outer hold, had many structures, some smaller holds and establishments. A good half, if not more, was occupied by the crafthalls, where Halen and Penet probably wouldn't be welcome. That didn't leave many places to run. Somehow, they needed to slip out undetected.

"Are you sure D'sen is gone, Penet?"

"I'm certain, old friend. I could tell when the stream of expletives faded."

"Very well." That was one obstacle out of the way, for the moment, at least.

"Unfortunately," Halen continued, "you'll probably have to manage most of our withdrawal. You see," he withdrew one of the goblets, filling it with water. "It's getting to be that time of day again." The vial of fellis appeared in Halen's hands and poured out roughly all of the drug left into the cup.

Penet raised an eyebrow. "In the past few days, you haven't had to down that stuff for at least another hour." Dragons, it seemed, were heavy, late sleepers. Definitely not early morning creatures. For the past two days, Halen had had to drink a small amount of fellis (they were getting closer and closer to the proper dosage, said Penet) to keep his sleeping periods coinciding with the dragon's waking periods. It looked like that each claimed half of the day – equal parts sleeping and waking.

"Caution is of the essence, I think."

"We can't keep running forever, Halen. We're going to need a more permanent solution."

"Yes, but until then..."

The hunter trailed off. There was something wrong. He was starting to... The link that he had so desperately encased in icy hatred and black scorn was beginning to function. The dragon was waking because of some agitation. They were waking the weyrling.

"Clever," muttered Halen, and, without hesitation, downed the cup in front of him. The now-familiar, fruity taste of fellis tainted the bland water. Not an unpleasant mixture. The previous day they had experimented with fellis and _klah_, and the result had been terrible.

"What's clever?" asked Penet curiously. "What happened?"

"I'll tell you later." The soporific was beginning to take effect. A strange, floating feeling seemed to engulf Halen as the fellis lulled him to sleep.

Penet watched as Halen's head fell to the table. "Barkeep!" called Penet. "I think my brother has had one drink too many. Do you have somewhere where I can..." The heavy set bartender jerked a thumb at the back room, where most of the unconscious patrons had been hauled too. Penet grunted his acknowledgment, and, with no small difficulty, lifted Halen's inert form and began to half-carry, half-drag him towards the back room.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Now," explained D'sen, "we've got a day to search for him. He couldn't have gotten far in the little time he had between running out of the room and drugging himself. We'll be moving, and he won't be, so, if we can cover every half-hand of Bitra Hold before the sun sets, we can find him."

"I'm not sure of that," replied F'nor darkly. "In a few hours, Gather festivities starts, and the Gather Grounds, which happen to be the entire Hold, will be stuffed to the brim with revelers. Also, as F'lar said, the boy if resourceful, clever, and determined. Even the warmth of a dragon's mind couldn't thaw his heart." D'sen suddenly remembered how he had been prior to his candidacy on the Hatching Grounds. His life had seemed to gain new purpose when blue Sayath, not so much larger than D'sen himself, had stumbled forth from his mottled shell and chosen the boy Disen as his rider. The love, the closeness of two minds in such an unimaginable way, was unbelievable. It was hard to understand how the rogue could have rejected such a fate in favor of a life dedicated only to escaping the former. And the boy's life truly would be all-intent on escaping, as D'sen would be chasing him, not only out of personal feelings, but for the good of the Weyr, and the good of one lonely, unpartnered hatchling.

_I think this will end well, _Sayath interjected sleepily. _Canth agrees. The young one cannot run forever. He will wake eventually. He rides a fighting dragon; duty to Pern will surely awaken in him. No one claims alliance with the Thread._ D'sen was reminded of the hunter's claim on the first day they had met. He had said something like: "The Weyr is my enemy, and the Thread is the Weyr's enemy. And the enemy of my enemy..." Had it been on the first day? Or had it been when D'sen had been talking to him, later? Yes, it had been later. After the boy's resentment had had a chance to boil.

D'sen realized that, during the time he'd been lost in thought, F'nor had been looking at him. The bluerider forced himself back into reality. The wingsecond began to speak, "Remember D'sen, we are fighting with are quarry, knives and a dragon's flame have no use to us. This is a struggle between hearts and minds. I am of the opinion that the boy came west to distance himself from Salt's Clearing; to stop us from becoming prejudiced against his home, and perhaps start thinking that other boys from the Clearing are of the same mind that he is. We have one day, D'sen, as you said. We should make use of it. I'll start walking left, you start right, and we'll continue until we meet again." D'sen nodded and the two began the pattern, sure to find the renegade rider eventually...

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Prescience had returned, as it seemed to now daily. The problem, it seemed was becoming more and more urgent. However, there was always that hanging, looming warning that he was not the correct person to deal with the problem. Unfortunately, that "correct person" the person who was not-quite him, did not seem to have started solving the problem, so far to the east, near Benden Weyr. Also, the prescient mood, while cryptically informing him that danger was afoot, failed to inform him as to what this danger was. What exactly was the problem? He didn't know. He couldn't say. But, he was tired of watching and waiting. He had to be _there_, in Benden, where he could do some good. He was so far to the west... Where was he again? Why did the prescience have to remove all sense of self?

Regardless, if nothing was done, the problem would continue along like the Thread. Granted, it would eventually solve itself, but the Thread only died of hunger after it had burned out all available nutrients in the landmass! In just the same way, the problem might end itself, but it would only end badly. He had to _be_ there.

There was suddenly immense darkness and cold, cutting through the foggy visions of prescience into his mortal mind, chilling to the bone, blinding the soul. Normally, he knew, during the semi-omniscient state, he couldn't sense anything other than what it told him. For him to _feel_, the feelings must have truly been immense...

Light and temperature returned, though he couldn't perceive exactly what he saw. So strong was the knowledge absorbed from his current state that it obscured everything else. He was now far in the east, near Bitra. The prescient mood was...

The prescience faded, memory and self returning to him. But he didn't have time to think about that now.

He was on a large hill surverying Bitra Hold, the fire-heights not far in the distance. More importantly, however, was that a _huge_, full-grown blue dragon was sitting _right in front of him_. He nearly fainted, straight out.

Its eyes were closed. It seemed to be sleeping. He became curious. He'd never seen a dragon this close, before. They were beautiful creatures; powerful with a strong sense of duty, protecting all of Pern from the deadly Thread, earning the thanks of every Holder and the envy of every child. He went closer, determined to examine the marvelous, sapphire head.

On of the dragon's eyes cracked open. He nearly tumbled over in surprise. The eye was nearly as large as he was! "My apologies, Master Dragon," he managed to stutter out. The opalescent eye was now examining him from top to bottom.

_No need to apologize._ Had the dragon just spoken to him? His legs felt weak again. Too many surprises today. _Dragons speak to whom they will, _the blue continued amusedly. _I am Sayath, and D'sen is my rider. I did not notice you approach, but I was dozing. The sun is so nice and warm today._ Sayath rose slighting, examining him more intently, before returning to a resting position. _I feel that you would have made a good candidate, but there is no clutch hardening on Benden's sands. And you are a touch too young. Just as you don't take Weyrlings to fight Fall, you don't put children on the sands. It can be dangerous. Cyerith's rider was wounded during the last hatching. _Were dragons always this garrulous?

_Masterhealer Tirean says that if the young one hadn't been there, Cyerith's rider might have lost part of his leg. _The prescient mood threatened to return at that statement alone. He had a strong inkling that the one that Sayath had referred to as "the young one" had something to do with the problem. "The young one?" he asked.

_The one D'sen is looking for. My rider feels very strongly about finding him. I do not believe that the young one is a bad or malicious person. He will come around eventually. I am sure._

The dragon seemed unwilling to continue further. "Thank you for your time, Sayath. I must be going. My parents might be worried about me."

_Thank you for the company. I have little else to do. Other than sleep. Perhaps I will see you again, during the next Search. You will be old enough by then._

He bowed, turned and began walking down the hill. When he was sure he was out of the line of sight of the dragon, he wondered what to do next. The prescience had muddled everything up. He was having trouble remembering things. Important things. Like his name, and where he was from. What should he do now?

He thought of his home, not the location on the map, but rather the place in his mind: his own bed, his warm furs, his cozy room...

Black and cold engulfed him again. He was about to scream in surprise, but realized that this might be good. The first time the black had come, he had gone to Bitra, to talk to Sayath. Perhaps he was returning, now.

Suddenly, as quickly as the transition had been made, he was back in his own home and hearth, with his own bed and his own warm furs. How had he done all that? Was that what dragonriders called _between_?

/ Intrigue, intrigue. I could have written a whole story on a boy who can go between. Is he really just a side character? And, for the LOVE OF ALL THAT IS HOLY, ACS Dude, tell us what color the hatchling is, and what its name is. All in good time, which probably means the next chapter.

This chapter reminds me of the old English ditty, "The World Turned Upside Down". Everything seems to be up in the air, and who knows how it will end. Is Sayath right in his prediction? Find out next time, I suppose. Please review, as I'm becoming extremely concerned that this story is becoming unbelievable, and that willing suspension of disbelief won't cover me for much longer. I really tried for most of this chapter to make all of the characters act in concordance with the way they do in the actual books. Please comment, once again, it makes me feel justified in life and writing.

Until next time, The ACS Dude /


	8. Chapter 7: Faustian Bargain

/ Author's Comments:

It's been about two weeks since I finished the last chapter. The feedback didn't overwhelm me, but I wasn't expecting it to. Since then, I've started re-reading _The Renegades of Pern_, which is really quite helpful in describing Gathers, which is convenient, as I'm writing about one right now. The problem is that I can't force myself to read any further than where I currently am in the book, since Aramina's story becomes too sad for me to keep reading.

I mentioned that I didn't get much feedback for the last chapter, but what few reviews I did get were very encouraging and supportive. I thank those reviewers for their kind words. However, that leaves me to wonder: what happened to the critics? Perhaps I just haven't given it enough time.

I'm thinking that there are three options for the story: 1) it will clinch within three or four chapters and I'll write a sequel or 2) I'll end up writing a story roughly of book-length, (The fiction is around 89 pages, including this chapter) or 3) it will clinch within three or four chapters and end there.

Also, I just noticed that I changed D'sen's dragon's name from Sayth to Sayath and didn't really notice. They are the same dragon, and I'm working to fix that particular problem, so please, be patient. However, if I don't or can't for some reason, please note that Sayath and Sayth are the same dragon.

Chapter Information:

Drafting Began: 4:36:29 PM (GMT), December 2, 2006

Drafting Ended: 8:16:48 PM (GMT), December 10, 2006

Uploaded:

The Rogue of Pern

Chapter 7: Faustian Bargain

Bitra Hold

Present Pass, 16.1.19

Evening (Benden Time)

Twelve Hours Later

D'sen had been sure that the first frantic minutes of searching the rogue would have yielded results. The boy was asleep and couldn't have gone far! Minutes had quickly turned to hours. The sun shifted to a higher vantage point. The crowds had thickened, music started, and food sold. Lord Sifer himself had appeared at the Gather, positively spouting goodwill, greeting the bluerider in passing. Slowly, lazily, the sun then began to sink. The crowds thinned, the stalls closed, and the traders left, weighed down by excess of coin. After what had seemed an eternity, night began to overtake the Hold, and, in nearby Benden Weyr, a young hatchling had fallen asleep. Over the course of the day, he and F'nor had looked, examined, investigated, perused, and inspected every inch of Bitra Hold and the Gather grounds that wasn't solid stone. Their renegade rider had been nowhere to be found. And now, the rebel was awake, on the prowl. Given that only a few minutes elapsed between the time that D'sen had seen the hunter and the time the hatchling had been awakened, their quarry couldn't have gotten far. F'nor surmised that he had run off to a nearby bolt-hole, possibly in some backwater corner of the Hold, that they hadn't found. The man's escape strategy had been superb.

D'sen sighed. At least Sayath had enjoyed himself, sunbathing. The bluerider patted his mount affectionately and lept onto Sayath's neck, barely pausing to tie and tighten the riding straps. Directed by a mental command from his weary rider, the blue dragon lept into the air, trumpeting a brief goodbye to the Hold's assigned watchdragon, before disappearing between.

Mere seconds later, the pair appeared high above the Weyrbowl of Benden Weyr, already settling down to sleep. Sayath bugled, announcing his return, before sweeping down to his own Weyr for _another _nap. D'sen was also tired, but the ultra-cold of between had awakened the bluerider. Right now, all he wanted to do was strip off his riding gear, maybe take a bath, and sleep. A cup of klah, or perhaps wine, would also do nicely...

"So what did you think of our adventure today?"

D'sen whirled around to find F'nor resting in one of room's extra chairs. The other dragonman, rubbing his eyes, slumped down into an empty chair beside the brownrider.

"A waste of time. I can't believe he escaped from under our very noses."

"Well, think of it like this. What could we have done if we had caught him?"

That threw D'sen off his train of thought entirely. "Well, talked to him. Tried to convince him."

F'nor cracked a smile. "You've learned a lesson or two in diplomacy, I see. True, we could have talked. At best though, if he had refused to listen, we would have been forced to back away and keep an eye on him. We can't risk alienating him any further." After only seven days, F'nor seemed to have aged twenty years.

D'sen felt emotion rise in him. "This can't go on. I swear, by the shell of blue Sayath, that I'll bring him back. I can't stand by and watch a rider neglect, or worse, _reject_ his dragon." He saw F'nor's expression. "But I understand that it can't be done by force."

The wingsecond nodded his agreement. "F'lar said to me, and I said to you earlier today, that this is a battle of hearts and minds. It no longer matters what the right decision was a sevenday ago or what we might have done to avert the present problem. It already happened. It's here. We have to forge on ahead, remember our mistakes, and prepare for next time."

D'sen started at that. "I feel that it's partly my fault..." F'nor silenced him. "If the sky fell, we wouldn't be troubled by the Thread." The brownrider grinned his childish grin, and two decades of age seemed to disappear from his countenance. "Now get some rest, bluerider. You look terrible."

He nodded. "I've had a long day. I was up early. Wait!"

F'nor stopped at the door. "What?"

"Nothing from the hatchling?"

"I don't know, I'm sorry. F'lar and Lessa have already retired. I'll check with R'bas, perhaps he knows. Now get some rest. That's an order, wingman!"

Without another word, the brownrider slipped out of the room, leaving D'sen and Sayath alone. The bluerider shook his head, sighed, and stripped off his tunic. He intended to have a bite to eat, forgo bathing, and _sleep_.

* * *

Halen awoke from a relatively peaceful sleep to possibly the worst smell he had ever experienced. It was an exquisite mix of vomit, alcohol, and body odor, the combination of which created an unbelievable stench. Personally, Halen was almost inclined to add to the smell of vomit with a contribution of his own. The room was mostly dark, Halen noted, and he was having trouble seeing his own nose in front of his face.

"Are you okay?" Penet's voice.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Where, by the void that spawned us all, are we?"

"I don't think knowing would make you feel any better."

Halen placed one hand to his forehead. It didn't hurt, but his head was spinning.

"How long was I asleep for?"

"Most of the day. I watched D'sen. He didn't leave too long ago, but he did leave."

"I take it he didn't find us?"

"No, but not for lack of trying. There was another rider too. F'nor, F'lar's primary wingsecond, I believe."

"Interesting. We need to move. _Now._"

"Why?"

"They know we're here. They might have left for the day, but they'll be back tomorrow."

"Move to _where_? Paths to Lemos are snowed in this time of year, and Benden Hold is ten days off or more, in this weather. Only thing to the north is a few minor holds, and, of course, Salt's Clearing, but they'll be watching for you there."

"East."

"East? Towards Benden Weyr? Why?"

"I've an idea. I'll explain it to you as we go. We haven't a moment to lose. Does that map of yours show the minor holds along the way?"

"Yes..."

"Good." Halen rose. "Come on. We really do need to go. Or, more accurately, _you_ need to."

"Me?"

* * *

Benden Weyr

Present Pass, 16.1.22

Morning (Benden Time)

Three Days Later

"Two days of searching Bitra Hold, top to bottom, has revealed essentially nothing, unfortunately. No results about the location of the rogue. Fortunately, we do know that he can't have left his general area. Paths west, to Lemos Hold, are blocked by snow. North is Salt's Clearing, which is where he's most likely to have fled to, as he knows the terrain intimately. Though not recommended, a journey south is possible during the early months. We are, of course, to the east, and our renegade rider is likely to go anywhere but towards us. Now, we flew fall over Lemos yesterday, and I would guess that, come morning three days from now, he could be back in Salt's Clearing, where it would be nearly impossible to find him." D'sen had summarized the search honestly and concisely, but he never though he would hear himself saying the following words. "Therefore, if the rogue has not been found in twice that time, in the next sevenday, I have to recommend that we abandon a full-time search for him. I'll be happy to stay on the lookout for the boy, but diverting most of T'non's wing to observation duties clearly can't continue."

F'lar and F'nor were, for reasons totally unknown to D'sen, the only other two people in the council chambers. Usually, during these morning briefings, Lessa and R'bas were both present.

F'lar sighed and rubbed his eyes, before slamming his fist onto the stone bench. "We have to find him sooner than that, bluerider." D'sen met F'lar's gaze and saw the worry in them.

"The hatchling is getting hysterical. Lessa is trying to calm it down. So are Brekke and R'bas. We don't have much time. In six days, we might not have a chance of finding him, but if I had to venture a guess, I'd say that we have closer to two days, at most. Do you understand that that poor creature has never so much as talked to his rider?"

D'sen vaguely wondered what would happen if Sayath hadn't heard from him in a sevenday. "Yes, Weyrleader. I understand. We'll redouble our efforts. I assure you."

F'nor spoke up. "We could enlist the aid of harper hall and the hold guards for our search. Post notices that the boy is charged with attacking a dragonman and fleeing the scene, and is to be returned to the custody of the Weyr alive, for us to determine his punishment. Given that that crime is even true, we should have no reservations about trying that approach."

F'lar shook his head. "We haven't a skilled sketch-artist who has seen the rogue. The description "tall, dark, brown-haired, brown-eyed hunter" fits about any man of Salt's Clearing. He's got no distinctive markings that we know about, so that option is, unfortunately, not viable."

Just as he finished the sentence, the door to the chambers swung open, with R'bas behind it. "Weyrleader, I thought you might like to know that someone arrived – a guest for one of the Weyrlings."

D'sen didn't comprehend the man's meaning. "R'bas, at least a dozen guests arrive at some point or another for the Weyrlings after Impression. Unless the rogue himself has come knocking at our door, I don't see the importance."

"Well, bluerider it's not terribly important, or I would have bespoken you directly. It's just that he says he's from Salt's Clearing."

F'lar and F'nor exchanged glances. "Might be of importance, or it might not be," said F'nor at length. Another pause followed.

"Let's go," said the Weyrleader, slowly rising from his seat.

* * *

"Penet!" said G'ron brightly. "What brings Salt's Clearing's tanner to the Weyr?"

"Hey, now, little fella. I'm not technically the tanner. And what brings me here? I was at Bitra Gather a few days ago when I heard the news. I just can't believe it. You're a bronzerider?"

Though Halen had sent him on his trip to Benden Weyr, Penet was relieved and pleased to see the young man. Gyron's – or G'ron's, Penet corrected himself – father was an apprentice tanner, so Penet had worked with him from time to time.

"Yes!" G'ron puffed out his chest. "G'ron, rider of bronze Lerith." The boy patted the sleeping hatchling affectionately. Penet had forgotten how wide the boy's grin could be.

"So it's G'ron now?"

The weyrling's face momentarily darkened. "Well, yes, but it was a hard decision. You see, just a few turns, a Telgar rider, also by the name of G'ron, lost his dragon. His name was Giron, not Gyron, but I had to decide whether or not I wanted to chose the same name as man who would be recognized as dragonless."

"Well, I'm sure you chose correctly. So, how are things?"

The hatchling's barracks was by no means cramped, with space enough for both growing dragons and riders. Already, Penet couldn't see over even the smallest green. Hatching had only been a sevenday ago. The hunter had no doubts that in a few more sevendays, they'd outgrow their quarters entirely.

"Everything is going just fine, I suppose. I feel like..." the boy grasped for the proper words, "like I just woke up. Everything seems new, exciting. As if I'm really _doing _something. When I was at Salt's Clearing, I guess I thought I was going to learn to be a tanner some day, but I didn't really know what I was going to do. Now, I feel like I've got a purpose. I'm going to be able to protect Pern, alongside Benden Weyr, and Lerith!"

Penet didn't bother to point out that Benden didn't fly Thread over Salt's Clearing, which was one of Halen's arguments against the Weyr. The tanner surveyed the surrounding barracks once again. Every hatchling seemed to have his or her rider close by. Except for...

"Where is that blue's rider?" asked Penet, gesturing to one hatchling.

G'ron glanced at the unpaired blue dragon. "Oh, that's Fal'an's blue Cyerith. Fal'an's leg was injured during the hatching and he can't sleep here. He stops by once or twice a day to oil Cyerith, though. He won't let anyone else do it without him, though4 he always has plenty of help. That's an interesting story, actually. The other Salt's Clearing candidate helped treat his wound."

"Other Salt's Clearing candidate?" asked Penet, pretending to be surprised. "You mean the one who attacked D'sen and B'fol?"

G'ron nodded. "I saw him just after I Impressed Lerith, towards the end of the hatching. He was talking to the Weyrleader, just after he finished helping Fal'an."

Penet looked around the barracks, pretending to look for Halen. Obviously, the hunter wasn't there. "I don't see him here. I take it he didn't Impress?" Penet knew better, of course. He just wanted to, per Halen's instructions, find out anything he could.

G'ron furrowed his brow. "I don't know, actually. I assume he didn't, but I heard that he collapsed on the sands after Impressing. That must have just been a rumor, though, given that I don't see him anywhere here. And Fal'an would have told us if he was in the infirmary. I'm sure you'll see him the next time you return to Salt's Clearing."

Penet nodded thoughtfully and deftly changed the topic. "Have you started Weyrling training yet?"

"We've been lectured a little bit, but we don't learn to fly for a few sevendays, if not months, I've heard. Lerith and I are both very excited. Mostly, though, its just oiling and bathing our dragons. I still can't believe that one day, we'll be searing Thread together!" G'ron's eyes sparkled with a depth and shine that Penet could hardly believe. Searing Thread astride a dragon. When he had been much younger, Penet had had that particular sundream once or twice. He doubted that Halen ever had. But to Gyron – G'ron – this was a fantasy come to life. Two sevendays ago, his life had probably seemed bleak as the weather. Now, he rode a bronze, and would never lack a confidant or a friend. This boy, who Penet had known for turns, might one day be a Weyrleader, though that was far in the future and unlikely.

"Well," began Penet, "I'm sure you'll do well, and I want you to know that everyone is very proud of you. I'm sure that your mother was overwhelmed by the news." He clapped the boy on the shoulders and looked him straight in the eyes. "Good luck, wherever your adventures as a dragonman take you. I may be you first visitor, but I won't be your last. And I may be back in a few months." G'ron broke into another huge smile, and Penet couldn't help but give him one last clap on the shoulders before turning to leave.

On his way out, Penet made careful note of pair of dragon and rider, counting the net total of weyrlings. Fal'an's blue Cyerith was the only one unaccompanied hatchling. Then, Halen's dragon was 1) being kept elsewhere, and judging by G'ron's response to Penet's query, 2) unknown to the weyr general. Still, if the Weyrlings decided to take a tally, they'd notice that they were one dragon short. Ramoth had clutched fourty-six eggs, and only 45 pairs, including blue Cyerith and absent Fal'an, were quartered in the barracks. Penet opened the door of the barracks, and started for the main Living Caverns, perhaps for a covert look around...

"Excuse me? Could I speak with you for a moment?"

Penet whirled around to find the voice's source. He didn't recognize the tone, but it sounded oddly familiar, a bit like F'nor's...

Standing just to Penet's left was a man that the hunter knew from a dozen harper's sketches and a thousand stories. Weyrleader F'lar, the most powerful man on Pern.

The hunter struggled to keep his voice steady. "Of course, Weyrleader."

F'lar nodded his appreciation. "Thank you, Hunter Penet. I had been informed that you are a man of Salt's Clearing?"

Penet nodded slowly and cautiously and F'lar continued. "Well, you see, hunter, I was wondering if you knew..."

The Weyrleader's voice trailed off and his head tilted to one side, as though looking at something Penet could not see. The hunter was reminded that a dragonrider's powerful link with his mount allowed him to receive messages telepathically.

"I apologize, but something of importance has come up. I'd like very much to speak with you later, though, so please oblige me and stay in the Weyr for a while." Penet nodded his assent. What else could he do, addressing the most powerful man on Pern? This might be a ploy to stop him from getting back to Halen, but Penet simply didn't see how he could refuse. He couldn't escape either. Coming up into the Weyr on the only the land route from the Bowl to the Outer Caverns, the tanner had passed through two gates with barbicans, each guarded by no less than six men, probably with others concealed overhead. Quite frankly, Penet didn't understand how Halen had managed his seemingly miraculous escape in the first place. From the defensive perspective, Benden seemed nigh-on-invincible. Nearly two decades ago, a force a thousand men strong had arrived at the gates of the mountain, intent on storming the Weyr. That army might have succeeded in penetrating the two gates, had it come to that. Halen had somehow escaped alone from the very same mountain. It couldn't have been down that lone, spindly, heavily guarded pass.

Penet sighed and wondered what to do next. He couldn't leave the Weyr. Perhaps he could find bluerider D'nat, another weyrman of Salt's Clearing descent, now a Weyrling for one full turn. Penet didn't know him as well as he did Gyron – G'ron – but, the two had met in the past.

The hunter sighed again. There were a hundred options he could pursue, but they were all just ways of passing the time. He had nothing to do save perhaps bide his time and wait.

* * *

F'lar stared straight at F'nor, and saw that his half-brother had done exactly the same to him. There was silence. "Might be of importance, or it might not be," said F'nor at length. Another pause followed.

"Let's go," said the Weyrleader, slowly rising from his seat. The two walked out of the door together, followed closely by R'bas and D'sen. "Where is he, R'bas?" asked F'lar as they entered a side passage, leading towards the Living Caverns hall.

"I'm not sure, sir. I think he was going to visit the Salt's Clearing weyrling, the other one, I mean. G'ron, rider of -"

F'lar cut him off. "G'ron, rider of the bronze Lerith. We had a bit of a discussion about his name. I remember."

"Yes, sir. Well, if I'd known his visit was of importance, I would have kept an eye on him and bespoken you via Mnementh. As it was, I just heard of his arrival in passing. The thought just happened to strike me as I passed the council chambers. He might be visiting young G'ron at the moment or he might have decided to take a look around the Weyr."

"Alright then. I've other duties to see too, unfortunately. Try to track him down. F'nor, D'sen, give T'non's wing their patrol orders, air and land. This can't go on much longer. I'm going to go talk to Lessa, to see how the hatchling is doing."

The wingsecond and the bluerider saluted and immediately changed direction away from the Weyrleader. R'bas, too, saluted briskly and broke off. Each to his own assignment. The day was still young, and, with the exception of the women of the Lower Caverns, the mountain was asleep. F'lar would have a post-fall meeting with the wingleaders in the council chambers later in the day, but, as it was, he had more immediate concerns.

The Weyrleader of Benden Weyr cut briskly through the Living Caverns into a side hall, and then cut to the right, towards the massive Queen's Weyrs, near where F'nor also incidentally took quarters. Those massive ledges could each house a gold, the largest and most important of all the five colors of dragonkind. Across the hall from that these gigantic quarters was a smaller, much older queen's weyr, now home to brown Canth and, for now, the unnamed, desperate hatchling who had been cruelly shunned by a renegade rider.

F'nor had picked his quarters long before the troubling incident had ever taken place, but the few who knew about the rogue and his dragon had unanimously agreed that it was the best place to house the young weyrling. More important than space or comfort, which were corporeal reasons for the choice, was the proximity to Brekke and Lessa (not to mention F'lar). More than once, the poor creature had woken screaming in the morning, and the two women between them could barely calm it down. This morning had been one of those mornings. Though he was drawing closer and didn't hear any howls, F'lar wanted to see the hatchling, now only a sevenday old, with his own two eyes, to make absolutely sure that it was calm.

Even if the two women, blessed with the talent to speak to any dragon, had restored the hatchling's faith in existence for a day, the routine couldn't continue. They had to find the rogue.

The Weyrleader turned the knob on F'nor's door, push in, and nearly knocked Lessa off of her feet. It seemed that she had just been walking away from the hatchling, whose shade a turned a miserable grayish. Gray! Compare that to the bright sheen the dragon had possessed just a few days ago.

"How is it?" F'lar jerked his head at the young dragon, which now appeared to be sleeping beside massive Canth.

Lessa, dark hair trailing behind her, sighed and pulled back a chair nearby chair and sat, shaking her head. Her face said as much as a hundred words.

F'lar said what was on her mind. "I've dispatched F'nor and D'sen to lead T'non's full wing on another sweep."

"I know." Though she had just barely risen, Lessa looked as tired as a wingrider crawling back from a full, four-hour fall.

"I won't let this go on. If we can't find him in another two or three days, I may dispatch more wings to keep an eye out for him. That poor hatchling... I could hardly bear to listen to it this morning. Though I can hardly place the blame on the weyrling. Any dragon would be frightened to the point of madness if its rider had seemed to be asleep for a sevenday."

Lessa shook her head slowly. "The rogue wasn't asleep this morning."

F'lar gaped at her. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"It wouldn't have helped. He wasn't asleep, but his dragon still couldn't hear him. As a result, the poor thing went half insane. I doubt we can deal with hysteria like that again."

"He was awake, but his own dragon couldn't hear him? He was blocking it out?"

"It would seem so," said Brekke, who had approached the pair from the other side of the Weyr.

F'lar stared across the room at the hatchling, pitifully nameless, now asleep after a morning-long ordeal, finally having coaxed back to sense and reason. For the hundredth time in the past few days, the Weyrleader of Benden Weyr resolved to find the renegade hunter and rider, somewhere on Pern.

_R'bas wishes you to know that he has found the visitor you asked him to find._ Mnementh still sounded half-asleep, so early in the morning.

_He is named Penet, and is visiting Lerith's rider in the Weyrling Barracks.__The little one was not well this morning._ The great bronze had taken to calling the young, unnamed dragon "the little one".

"I'm sorry, but there is something else I have to tend to. I swear that the rogue will be found and brought back. If not for his sake, then for the sake of..." F'lar didn't have to finish the sentence. He could swear he saw a tear in Brekke's eye. Brekke who had once had, and then lost, a dragon of her own, would probably have damned the rogue for the crime he had committed. If the creature went _between_ from grief, from lack of communication with the renegade rider, that was blood on the hunter's hands.

F'lar dipped his head slightly and left the room. The scene was so depressing... It only strengthened his resolve. In a few days, the hatchling would suicide, doubtless. They only had that long, then. And the fact that the rogue had actually _blocked out _his dragon! How perverse could the man be?

The Weyrleader, lost in thought, followed the spiraling path down to the Weyrling Barracks. Benden Weyr was large and old, having fought in every pass as far back as any records, even Fort's went. And never, never in the history of Benden, had someone like the rogue emerged. Hatching and Impression should be the greatest day of a rider's life, and the most cherished memory of both man and dragon. The link forged that day could traditionally only be broken by death itself. This hunter, this rebel, had somehow twisted the bond of love and friendship into a near torture for the dragon and a living death for the man. They had theorized that the rogue was taking fellis during the day to keep from having to listen to his lifemate, and was awake only at night. If he was willing to endure such a regimen to _avoid_ being a dragonman, the sundream of every boy on Pern, then his heart was truly black.

F'lar hardly noticed that he had arrived at the front doors to the Barracks. He stood outside the door, to one side, waiting. It would awkward if he burst in to speak to the man. He would have to wait.

The Weyrleader didn't wait long. In just a minute or two, the doors opened, and Penet, dressed in the leather garb of a hunter, emerged from the huge system of rooms. He seemed to be lost in thought and didn't notice F'lar.

"Excuse me? Could I speak with you for a moment?"

Penet whirled to the left, facing the source of the sound. F'lar saw the look of dawning recognition cross the hunter's face.

"Of course, Weyrleader."

F'lar nodded. "Thank you, Hunter Penet. I had been informed that you are a man of Salt's Clearing? Well, you see, hunter, I was wondering if you knew..."

_Canth says that they have found the rogue! He is in a hilly area west of Benden. The rogue is good at escaping. We should hurry._

"I apologize, but something of importance has come up. I'd like very much to speak with you later, though, so please oblige me and stay in the Weyr for a while." F'lar practically ran towards his Weyr, to grab his riding gear. He would bring the rogue back to Benden.

* * *

Halen cursed himself for the fifth time as he eyed the wall of dragonmen around him. When that blasted dragon had waken up, he should have taken cover and downed a dose of fellis. But the creature had promptly returned to sleeping, so Halen, somewhat foolishly, had decided to try to get in another hour or so of consciousness. With Penet somewhere in Benden Weyr, trying to gather information, he, Halen, was left without defenses.

He'd been polishing his sword when a brown dragon, F'nor's Canth, popped overhead. The sharp-eyed dragon must have seen the glint in the sunlight, but in a few seconds, the sky contained a dozen dragons. Halen had tried to run, of course, but the creatures had strafed around him and forced him into a corner.

Eventually, he had darted through the low-flying dragons, but had run into a wall of boulders, deposited by some Thread-bared rock slide. By that time, the riders had dismounted and formed a semicircle around the hunter. Halen had immediately drawn his sword, keeping the men at that length from him, but there were twelve of them and one of him, even if they had nothing but belt knives. More importantly, the wing of dragons was still hovering above him, cutting off his route of escape.

Had it come to a fight, Halen was sure he could have cut down two or three before someone, either a dragon or a rider, took off his head, but he would have only executed such a maneuver out of spite. Both sides would have suffered, and to no avail.

A new shape appeared overhead, and Halen saw the outline of a gigantic bronze dragon, swooping slowly downwards. He had seen that dragon once before, though only off in the distance. That was bronze Mnementh, Weyrleader F'lar's massive compatriot. And that could mean only one thing...

Halen kept one eye on the landing bronze, and one eye on the barricade of riders, looking for a weakness. However, it seemed that even if he could find an opening, he could wouldn't have gotten far. Dragons could fly many times faster than a man could run.

The living wall parted in the center, and none other than Weyrleader F'lar of Benden Weyr walked through the barrier. He made a brief hand gesture, and the riders slowly began to back away. D'sen, who was positioned to Halen's right, scowled, but obeyed the command, lowering his belt knife.

F'lar looked Halen straight in the eyes, shaking his head sadly. Halen felt rage bubble inside him.

"What do you want?" he demanded, though both knew the answer.

"I'm here to bargain with you."

"Your bargains be thread-bared. I'm not going to the Weyr."

"You don't want to be a dragonrider? Not one bit?"

"Not at all. Allow me to explain to you, F'lar, that I will run you down before I let you take me back. I don't want to, but if it comes to that, I'll do it."

"I'm afraid that I will bring you back. And I also intend to stay alive. I have to."

"WHY? What do you want from me?"

"I want you to come back to the Weyr and act as a proper dragonman. Why? Because there is young bronze hatchling that will die if you don't. If I could do this all over again, go back two sevendays, I would have let you go back to Salt's Clearing. Unfortunately, I can't change the past any more than I can stop Thread from falling. You may not like it and I may not like it, but it has to be done. It's not your choice anymore. Two sevendays ago, you were a hunter. Now, you're a bronzerider, and all dragonmen belong in a Weyr. "

Halen stared at F'lar as total silence surrounding the bleak gathering of men. It might have been a minute, or it might have been an hour later than Halen shoved his sword into the cold, rocky ground and began to speak.

"The color of the dragon's hide means nothing to me. Understand that I hate the Weyr, and always will as long as I have strength left. My blood is the same color as yours, F'lar of Benden, but that is where similarities between us end. Also understand that _I_ didn't start this little merry chase of ours. You did. I have hated the Weyr for many turns, and will hate it for many turns more. But that was all. I never would have raised an army to go storm the mountain, as the Lord Holders did turns ago, and I never would have killed a dragonman, as I have opportunity to do now."

Halen allowed that remind to sink in before continuing. "I hate the Weyr, yes, but I hate many things with a passion. I hate the Lady Holdless Thella, but I never would have sought her out to destroy her. All I wanted was to live in peace. I have a home and friends in Salt's Clearing to the far north. I had a history, I had a family, and I still have the memories of fifteen happy turns there. The life of a hunter isn't easy, nor is it enviable, but when most of the game isn't too dangerous, it is peaceful."

The hunter took a few breathes and continued on his rant. "One day, about a turn ago, a couple of dragonriders swooped down and searched Denat, now the bluerider D'nat that you know and keep. I wasn't there that time, or all of this might have happened again earlier. A few sevendays ago, the same thing happened again, and D'sen and B'fol," Halen pointed out the two sweepriders from the line behind F'lar, "came spiraling down from the sky to search young Gyron and myself. Do you understand that you forced the issue? It is you, not I, who have caused this problem, and I think you should take it upon yourselves to end it. Leave me alone. That's all you have to do. I can go back to Salt's Clearing and live in peace, and I won't bother you again. And you have a hunter's word on that. I'm no murderer, and I'm no thief. But I'm not, and will never be, a dragonrider."

There was another silence. Halen realized that he had raised his voice for the last sentence, and had practically screamed his rejection at the Weyrleader. However, with the rant over, it was now up to the dragonman to give him an offer. Really, though, only one of two things would happen. Either the Weyrleader would let him go, and that would be that, or the Weyrleader would try to capture him, and there would be violence. Hopefully, the he would opt for the peaceful solution.

To Halen's surprise, it was D'sen who spoke next, stepping towards the hunter aggressively.

"Didn't you hear the Weyrleader, rogue? This isn't about what you want anymore. It's not only your own life. Its the life of your dragon, and the lives of those that your dragon would protect. This is about the good of Pern, not your own good..."

F'lar raised an arm to one side, barring D'sen's passage and silencing the bluerider. The Weyrleader looked solemnly at Halen. Slowly, the most powerful man on Pern spoke.

"I see. It doesn't matter why you hate the Weyr, which was our primary concern, merely that you do. The original conflict is meaningless. You simply don't want to be a rider, and want to be left alone. In that case, I think that we can reach an agreement."

"You really are hear to bargain, aren't you, F'lar?" Halen was intrigued. "What do you propose?"

"My compromise has just one stipulation, rogue. If you can look your dragon in the eyes and tell me truthfully that you still hate dragonkind, and would like nothing better than to return to your home, than you may do so. I'll even have a weyrling convey you there, if you wish. If you can't say such blasphemy, and you can see and accept love in that poor creature's eyes, then you stay in the Weyr with your dragon. Deal?" F'lar extended his hand.

Halen remembered, only now a few days past, the hatching when he had first heard the voice of the dragon. The urge to open his eyes and Impress fully had been maddening. But, if this was the only way that the Weyr would let him be, then he had no real choice. He would do it. He had to.

"You drive a bargain as hard as a Bitran trader, Weyrleader. Deal." Halen took F'lar's outstretched hand.

/ Yet another cliffhanger! My favorite kind of ending. They leave you guessing. So, please, once again, I like constructive criticism. Please review and tell me what you think. We finally know the color of Halen's dragon, but Halen, ever the stoic, doesn't seem to care. The next chapter, I can assure you, will be one of the last for this plot arc.

Until next time, The ACS Dude /


	9. Chapter 8: Seeing Eye to Eye

/ **Author's Comments:**

It's been almost four months since I published the last installment of The Rogue of Pern. I apologize to everyone who I've kept in suspense, but I've had a number of things going in my life that have delayed the update. More importantly, however, I found this chapter particularly difficult to write. I started questioning certain plot points that I planned to put in this chapter since I started writing the story. I had to scrap the entire thing once and start again. Well, in the end I bit the bullet and made some tough decisions. Please review and tell me what you think.

Also, I probably made many mistakes in this chapter, because after I finally got a chapter that I liked, I was just so eager to get it up that I just posted it without much proofreading. There is also the possibility that due to uploading problems, some of the POV breaks were omitted. I checked it a few times and I don't think I missed any, but the possibility remains. Be forewarned.

Lastly, I have included a quote in this chapter. I required to state a disclaimer here: I don't own the quote. It's the property of its attributed writer.

Chapter Information:

**Drafting Began:** 4:27:54 PM (GMT), March 10, 2007

**Drafting Ended:** 8:35:15 PM (GMT), April 15, 2007

**Uploaded:** 3:23:30 AM (GMT), April 16, 2007

"_What is a rebel? A man who says 'no'."_ **Albert Camus**, L'Homme revolte (The Man Who Revolted), 1951

French existentialist author & philosopher (1913 - 1960)

The Rogue of Pern

Chapter 8: Seeing Eye to Eye

Benden Weyr

Present Pass, 16.1.22

Morning (Benden Time)

Fifteen Minutes Later

Penet breathed extremely softly, as if the sound of respiration alone would give away his position. He was sure the Weyrleader hadn't seem him draw his combat knife, which he had now palmed and concealed behind his back. The entire event, every step that F'lar took, every small twitch that Penet made, seemed to happening in slow motion. Even so, Penet's brain did not yet fully comprehend the gravity of the situation, and Penet didn't want that realization at just this moment anyway. All he could concentrate on right now was the dragonman's back and the steel tip of his dagger digging into the flesh of his forearm.

He didn't know what had happened. Just a few minutes ago, Penet had been walking through a narrow corridor. Several dragonmen appeared on the other end of the hallway, and, respectfully, Penet had moved to one side so that the men could pass. However, those three were followed by another three, and another, and another... Penet counted twelve in all, a large part of a wing (wings were traditionally thirty-three men, but, over the 400 year hiatus in threadfall, wing sizes had grown much smaller). Seeing the last two men to enter the corridor had caused Penet's heart to skip a beat. One man had been F'lar – and, standing next to him had walked no other than Halen.

The Weyrleader had only given the tanner a glance, but Penet and Halen had linked eyes for a moment. Penet couldn't read what Halen seemed to want to tell him, but the rogue had stared intently, as if the thought could somehow bridge the gap between the two men's retinas and enter their brains. But dragonriders they were not, and Penet eventually broke the gaze and concentrated on the situation at hand. Halen was not restrained, and seemed to still be armed with both his full sword and combat knife. However, Penet didn't have time to consider what might have happened and why Halen still had his weapons.

As the Weyrleader passed him in the hallway, Penet had drawn and palmed his knife, concealing it behind his back. With one precise stroke, he could stab F'lar through the heart and kill him instantly. The man didn't seem to be wearing much aside from a leather riding tunic, and that was scant protection against a sneak attack. What would they do from there? Having killed the most powerful man on Pern, how would he and Halen escape? There had to be a way. Not through the front door, surely.

They'd have to make it up as they went. Penet came out of his corner and fell in behind the Weyrleader, at a brisker pace than F'lar was walking. He drew out his dagger. In a few more paces, he could strike. He knew where he would have to hit the dragonman. Penet surpressed his rising sense of blasphemy at the deed he was about to commit. He needed to focus on the present.

Penet drew closer, only a step away, and then stopped dead in his tracks. From next to F'lar, now only feet away, Halen had turned his head and slowly shook it, a clear "no". Penet didn't understand, but did comprehend that Halen wouldn't have instructed him to stop unless he had a plan to end this once and for all. Penet stopped, and sheathed his knife, just in time.

The Weyrleader, either subconsciously detecting that something was amiss or noticing Halen's motion, stopped and turned. The entire column in front of F'lar, a full twelve men, somehow knew to stop and turn with their superior. Penet didn't even want to imagine what would have happened if he'd had his knife drawn just then.

It was just then that the tanner realized that the corridor was absolutely quiet. Deciding that he was obliged to say something, Penet began what was sure to be a strained conversation.

"Weyrleader, if I may ask, what's happened?"

F'lar gave Penet a calculating stare. "The whole story is a very long one. I'm sure you recognize this man." F'lar briefly gestured at Halen.

"Of course. He's the man who knocked out both D'sen and B'fol."

A snicker came from somewhere down the column of riders, and Penet saw D'sen shoot the offender a poisonous glare. The man had an ego. Penet recalled Halen telling him about that.

F'lar, at the sound of the muffled exclamation, made one signal with his fist. The entire column of men turned and continued walking. F'lar nodded, as if approving of the promptness, and then continued.

"Do you know anything about what happened next?"

"Yes, I do, in fact." Penet risked a glance at Halen, whose face was now unreadable. "G'ron informed me that he was present at the hatching, failed to impress, and helped a young bluerider with his wounded leg."

"Extremely accurate, except for one crucial point, I'm afraid. I know that men of Salt's Clearing are bound together tightly. Perhaps you should just follow me, and I'll explain as we go."

F'lar turned to leave, and Halen turned with him, though neither continued talking. Penet followed, though was somewhat confused. Still, he knew more than he ought to have, and decided to exploit that. He'd ask F'lar questions he knew the answers to, and hopefully get some information about the present situation in the mean time.

Penet began, pretending to be ignorant of what had really taken place on the Hatching Ground sands. "Have you arrested him, Weyrleader F'lar? I and a hundred others witnessed him fight D'sen and B'fol, but if you've arrested him for it, I must object. Especially after he helped a weyrling."

F'lar seemed to falter for a moment, but then kept walking. They had come to the base of stone staircase, and the majority of the wing was visible above, but only as blurry dots. Penet couldn't for the life of him had said how long the staircase really was. It seemed to rise for half the mountain. F'lar, however, began to climb the steps without faltering, as did Halen, so Penet followed.

"Your logic is flawless, Penet." The Weyrleader then paused, as if he was carefully weighing his words. "However, the facts are slightly different from what you think them to be. The Rogue, as we call him," F'lar gestured at Halen, "was not entirely unsuccessful on the Hatching Ground."

Penet knew fully what the dragonman meant, but maintained his facade of ignorance.

"What do you mean?"

"What I mean, good hunter Penet, is that the Rogue did indeed succeed in impressing a hatchling. He then drugged himself, and, a few days later, in the dead of night, escaped the Weyr. Ever since, we've been looking for him high and low, as the dragon he impressed has been withering and dying for lack of him. We caught up with him today, and he has consistently and stalwartly refused to complete Impression of the young dragon."

Penet stopped dead in his tracks, and had to consciously resist the urge to draw his knife. His successive speech was somewhat choppy. "Do you mean to force him?"

F'lar stopped to look at Penet and waved a hand at Halen. "Does it look like we mean to force him? He has a sword and two belt knives as security, so he knows that we can't force him, or not without casualties. We've made a deal."

F'lar continued ascending the staircase, and Halen followed. Penet, after a moments shock, did the same.

"What kind of a deal?"

"A simple one. If he can look his dragon in the eyes and still tell me truthfully that he hates the creature and all of dragonkind, he can return to Salt's Clearing or wherever he wants to go."

"And if I cannot, I must stay here." Halen's voice, unusually deep, rang out in Penet's ears. "Yes, that was the bargain I and the Weyrleader made, just a few minutes ago. If I succeed, I'm a free man."

"That depends on your definition of success," countered F'lar. "And, it depends on your definition of 'free man'. I believe that you would be freer in the Weyr than anywhere else or Pern."

"So you say." Halen's voice was a perfect monotone.

The three men had reached the top of the stairs. F'lar gestured towards a nearby door. "Here we are." The Weyrleader knocked respectfully, and, after a moment, the door swung open.

* * *

The sun was nice and the day was warm, uncharacteristic of the early months. Well, at least that was one advantage of being this far south. The grass was exceptionally soft as well. Maybe he could just take a nap. He was feeling a bit drows... The prescience returned, and his senses disappeared before the knowledge that unfolded itself before him. Memory of self went with it, as it always did. The whirls of information and stream of thoughts that characterized the semi-omniscient state disintegrated, as it always did, and a lone image stood out. It was of a place. A clearing in the snow. _Salt's Clearing._ The name came to him. 

Suddenly, everything went dark. And cold. Extremely cold. The cold was like a knife, cutting through even the foggy vision of prescience and into his mind, into his very soul. He also became slowly aware that he felt as though he was hanging, not supported by a dragon or anything else. He was about to scream when...

The sun returned, but the day was now cold. It wasn't as cold as the darkness, but it still chilled to the bone. Sense was slowly returning to him. This was the place he had seen: Salt's Clearing. _But why not Benden Weyr?_ The scraps of the prescience whispered the answer to him: it would almost certainly happen here. He was in the right place, and would be in the right place still when the right time came. Still, one festering doubt remained as the maddening state faded: He wasn't the right person. Could he still do exactly what he needed to?

* * *

Penet watched the door swing open, and his heart started pounding in his chest. This was easily the moment of the truth. Halen's expression remained completely blank and stoic, though. How he could stay so calm, Penet would never know. If Halen had told the truth (which he had no reason not to), he would look the hatchling he had Impressed straight in the eyes. The newly shelled dragon would complete the Impression, in theory. If Halen could then say that he still hated dragonkind, he could return to Salt's Clearing. 

Penet also knew from all of the songs, ballads, and stories that he'd heard that Impression really changed a person. Men who walked onto the hatching ground and walked out paired and Impressed were never quite the same. Legend had it that while many of the stereotypical dragonrider traits, such as bravery and good looks, were the result of the careful Search process, this was not entirely the case. The dragon was, as Penet understood it, both a friend and a call to duty. The creatures brought out the best in men, inspiring bravery and the will to fight and protect Pern.

However, if Halen walked out of the room grinning with joy and new life, he would no longer be the same man. Penet couldn't remember how many times he'd heard Halen speak about his hate for the Weyr, his reasons, and his hopes that he'd never be Searched. How many of Halen's philosophies would be unraveled, how much of his personality would have to be destroyed, in the name of the Weyr? Penet suddenly found himself adamantly hoping that Halen returned to Salt's Clearing unchanged.

Halen had once also told Penet that love and hate were spectral opposites, and Halen held nothing but scorn for dragonkind. It might very well be a battle of minds and wills, but it might also simply meter which was greater: Halen's hate or the young dragon's love. Penet made a mental note to ask Halen which was the case later on. If he ever got the chance.

Just as it had when Penet had been poised to stab F'lar, time seemed to slow to a crawl. The tanner could hear nothing but the desperate beating of his own heart, and could feel the vibrations from every footfall he took. He struggled to keep pace with Halen and Weyrleader without breaking into flat run. Though time seemed to be crawling, F'lar darted across the room and fetched a dark-haired who Penet did not recognize.

The dragonman seemed to exchange brief greetings with her, but Penet realized that he really _couldn't _hear. The blood was pounding so hard in his ears... The hunter vaguely became aware that a number of the other dragonriders, including F'nor and D'sen, had broken ranks and had begun to stride towards them. The extremely brief conversation between F'lar and the woman seemed to conclude, and the Weyrleader beckoned the entire company onward.

They rounded a corner, where another dark-haired woman stood. She said something to the approaching people, and F'nor strode over to her. She, in turn, gestured for everyone to follow her. As they walked, Penet looked at Halen. His facial expression was still set, but he eyes had begun to lose focus, as though he was concentrating deeply. Given the situation, he probably was.

The group emerged onto a ledge, and the enormous brown dragon, Canth, rested before all of them. Canth, however, seemed to be concentrating on something else entirely, his large wedge-shaped head inclined downwards. Penet followed the gigantic creature's gaze, and saw a crumpled gray form at the brown's feet.

It took him a few moments to realize that this was a hatchling dragon, barely a sevenday old. It was then that Penet realized that the dragonriders had been pursuing the duo with such ferocity not out of malice or motive of revenge, but because they pitied this poor creature. Penet didn't doubt that it would die in a few days if it remained partner less. He stared the darkened hide and tried to determine what color it actually was.

The tanner caught a glimpse of bronze among the unhealthy gray, and tried to keep his surprise suppressed. His heart began beating even faster, and Penet briefly wondering if he was going deaf. The Weyrleader was saying something to Halen, but Penet couldn't hear what. The small bronze seemed to croon, and a happy expression seemed to cross its face. Halen, at least for the moment, ignored the noise (or had it really made a noise at all? Penet couldn't tell), and said something to the Weyrleader. F'lar nodded, and Halen turned to face the dragon.

This was the deciding moment for Halen, and Penet, despite his sadness for the would-be loss of the dragon, still supported his friend. But Penet's support meant very little. It was up to Halen.

And Halen seemed ready to face the challenge. He kneeled down before the dragon, and Penet could swear that the bronze's coat lightened a few shades instantly. Halen then quite clearly looked it in the eye.

There was absolute silence in the room, and Penet could feel and hear the blood pounding in his ears even harder. Halen simply knelt there, staring at the dragon's eyes. Ever man and woman in the room understood that this was a life-or-death situation. It might have been a minute or it might have been an hour before Halen, the man called "rogue", again stirred.

Halen stood, and turned to face the entire procession. He was smiling.

* * *

D'sen stood absolutely motionless and absolutely silent. He felt that F'lar shouldn't have made a bargain with the rogue, who was by far the trickiest, slipperiest individual that D'sen had ever encountered. Still, F'lar's plan seemed to be a good one. Even the rogue's heart of ice would crack when he looked his dragon in the eye... that brought D'sen back to memories of his own Impression of blue Sayath, who he wouldn't trade for the world. 

Mainly, D'sen had been concerned that the rogue had had an ulterior motive in accepting the deal. The bluerider had almost convinced himself that the hunter would try something subversive, but it seemed that he was wrong. This renegade, who D'sen had been hunting with a passion for over a sevenday, had come of his own free will to the Weyr. Perhaps the man thought of it as a trial.

This entire incident had done nothing but remind D'sen of how important the link between dragon and rider really was. As much as he could, he'd watched the small bronze whittle away, noticeably changing every night, distress dulling its coat. There was no doubt that the rogue would come to terms with reality and reason now, but D'sen had a mind to take steps to make sure that this never happened again. He and F'lar should have a long, serious talk about it. D'sen felt that he was largely responsible for everything that had transpired between the Search and this very instant.

Originally, D'sen had felt anger towards the rogue, because the hunter had caused him grief. However, the bluerider had failed to see what F'lar had immediately recognized: that it was D'sen, not the Salt's Clearing denizen, who had started the entire cycle. The renegade must have harbor extremely strong antipathy towards the Weyr to have fought so hard and fled so long. And, D'sen now recognized, the rogue had in reality wanted nothing more than peace. That choice was, unfortunately, out of the rogue's hands, but he would have a dragon and a place in the Weyr to make up for it, and D'sen hoped that was adequate.

Still, there were others out there, others like the rogue. Others who, for whatever reason, didn't want to accept Search. And even if this situation was about to be resolved once and for all, future instances of the same event had to be prevented. And for once in his life, D'sen had to take responsibility for his actions. Then and there, D'sen resolved to apologize to the rogue after this was all over, apologize for dragging him from his peaceful home.

The renegade rider knelt before the dragon, which lowered its head to meet the man face to face. D'sen's own breathing sounded blasphemously loud in the still, absolute quiet. This was the culmination of a sevenday's looking, sweeping, and watching. Everything was right in the world, the rogue was looking his bronze dragon straight in the eyes. The rogue was, D'sen reflected, and extraordinary individual. His will had been so strong, his reluctance to join the Weyr so intense, that he had resisted initial Impression. Then, through a masterful display of stealth, he had evaded pursuing Benden dragonmen for days. Days! It had seemed like turns. He was a unique, extreme case: merging his own considerable natural power and will to fight against the institution that needed those two qualities the most.

And, D'sen remembered the hunter's speech to the wing... He had wanted nothing but peace.

For an eternity, the rogue's face remained expressionless. However, D'sen decided that the hunter's self-control was enormous, and even if Impression occurred, it wasn't likely that he would show it immediately. The bluerider instead focused his gaze on Lessa, and watched for her reaction.

At first, nothing happened, and the Weyrwoman seemed extremely troubled. D'sen felt his heart begin to sink. Could the rogue...? But then, slowly, a smile broke through onto Lessa's face. D'sen saw that Brekke had reacted in exactly the same way. But the rogue still had that concentrated, indifferent frown which had done nothing but deepen. And suddenly, the renegade smiled, and D'sen's spirits rose as though they were mounted adragonback.

The rogue was smiling, still staring straight into his dragon's eyes. And suddenly, he closed his eyes and stared, unseeing, straight at the ground. But he was still smiling. It might have been a trick of the light, but D'sen fancied that he was trying to hold back tears.

Slowly, the hunter turned from the dragon, rose to his feet, and opened his eyes. And with that newly found smile still engraved onto his countenance, the rogue said: "Have I stared the hatchling in the eyes to your satisfaction, Weyrleader?" His tone had a kind of relieved happiness to it.

F'lar smiled straight back at the rogue, knowing that there was only event that could have cracked the man's stoic face into a grin. "Yes, I believe you have."

"In that case..." the renegade turned his head to look at the dragon for a moment, and then looked back at the Weyrleader. And his voice was suddenly solid ice. "I'd like very much to go back to Salt's Clearing, as per our agreement." Every smile in the room dropped away.

The rogue looked F'lar straight in the eyes, and his voice never wavered. "I still hate dragonkind, and I would like nothing better than to return to my home. Also, as per our agreement, I'd like to be conveyed there adragonback."

There was absolute silence for a moment, but then Penet's voice broke silence. "If its not too much trouble, I'd like to be returned to Salt's Clearing as well... I hope that's not too much of a problem, Weyrleader."

Penet's voice seemed to shake F'lar from his stupor, but D'sen still felt as though he'd been punched in the gut. How could the rogue have...? The Weyrleader was saying something to the two Salt's Clearing hunters, and seemed to have regained his wits. Lessa was still staring at the rogue, mouth open. The entirety of the wing had more or less the same condition.

D'sen vaguely heard F'lar ordering R'bas to convey the two hunters to Salt's Clearing. R'bas silently dipped his head and led the hunters out of the room. As soon as the door closed behind the rogue, the room erupted in protests. D'sen was only a little surprised to hear his own voice join the rest.

The Weyrleader raised both hands and waited for quiet. When the barrage of verbal objections died down, he spoke.

"I feel the same as all of you. However, I nothing else, we are men of our word. In old tradition, dragonmen were called upon to witness oaths. We – I – made a bargain with the rogue, though it was more of a bet. And we've lost this gambit. There's nothing I or anyone else can do. I'm amazed as the rest of you, that he could reject dragonkind so utterly."

"I felt them connect. I could have sworn I felt the Impression..." said Lessa quietly. Her voice trailed off, and her face was disturbed.

"Whether he did or he didn't Impress doesn't even matter as this point, unfortunately," interjected F'nor. "I hate to see the bronze wither away, but... what are we if not men of our words?"

At that, D'sen simply couldn't listen to any more. He stormed out of the room. He might have imagined it, but he could have sworn he heard F'lar say, "Let him go."

D'sen made his way down to his quarters faster than he could ever remember having done in the past. Quickly, he went over and dunked his head into the nearby basin of water.

As he dried his hair he started to pace. He must have done so for an hour or more. And then, he spoke to Sayath.

_Has R'bas returned yet?_

_Yes, just a few moments ago, _responded the blue lazily. The sun was making him sleepy. _You are concerned for the safety of the young dragon._

_Yes, I am. We're heading to Salt's Clearing. Don't inform any of the other dragons._

_I still feel that everything will turn out for the best if left to itself,_ said Sayath as he ducked his head, allowing D'sen to jump on.

_Perhaps. But I need to speak with the rogue. It's not just his life hanging in the balance._

Sayath took to the air. _F'lar may not be happy._

_I know he won't be. But allowed by our word or not, its something that needs to be done._

The pair winked between.

D'sen hardly took notice of the super-intense cold. He had something else on his mind. His still-wet hair might have frozen, and still wouldn't have noticed. He and Sayath were going to save a life. D'sen didn't know how, but by all that the Weyr held sacred and by Sayath's shell, he would save that bronze dragon's life.

Sayath and D'sen appeared in the sky over the now all-too familiar Salt's Clearing. _Sayath, do you know where the rogue might be?_

Sayath snapped his jaw in the draconic equivalent of a shrug.

_Ask R'bas' Rarath. He might know._

There was a moment's pause. _Rarath tells me that he saw the young one entering the large, building with two floors on the sunside of the clearing._ D'sen looked towards the east of the clearing, where the sun hung high over the clearing. The idea of multiple structures clustered close together outside the protection of a hold seemed strange, but it happened often enough in Southern, where they didn't have to worry about the Thread. Why not the same in Salt's Clearing?

D'sen had a hard time making out the structure, with the sun right behind, but he recognized the structure. _I think that's the tavern. Where is R'bas?_

_Back at the Weyr, with Rarath. The both of them seem to have left the Clearing._

Sayath landed a few lengths to one side of the building, and several people turned to look at D'sen as he dismounted. D'sen strode briskly across the open space, feeling unnaturally exposed. He almost broke into a run as he saw a sign hanging from the Tavern: "Salt's Clearing Drinks and Lodging**"**. He remembered it now. He'd taken note of the sign because of the rather uncreative name.

The bluerider opened the door to the tavern and glanced over the patrons. He didn't have to look long. There were only eight other people in the room, including the bartender. The rogue was sitting at what appeared to be a four-man table, next to Penet and another Salt's Clearing man who D'sen could sworn he had seen before, but couldn't assign a name or description to.

All three were already looking straight at the bluerider. D'sen sighed, and reminded himself that he was trying to steer the conversation such that it wouldn't turn violent. Without a word, D'sen pulled the remaining chair and sat down at the table.

The renegade spoke first. "As I was just telling Penet and Tras, I knew you'd be around sooner or later. I have to say, I wasn't expecting you for another hour, at the earliest. I'd also like to say that I think your coming here violates the agreement I made with your Weyrleader."

D'sen had expected that, and he had a response ready. "I had no choice. I couldn't in good conscience just let you go."

The hunter took a sip of liquid from the mug in front of him. "Really? Why is that?"

"Because that bronze hatchling will die if you don't come back to the Weyr and stay there."

The rogue put down his mug and rubbed his eyes. D'sen suddenly saw him as a much older man than the boy of sixteen that he knew the man to be. "Please, dragonrider, pour yourself a cup of _klah_." The renegade gestured to a steaming pot in the center of the table. "This is going to be hard for you to hear." D'sen nodded and poured some of the liquid into the empty cup before him and took a long sip.

The rogue sighed and leaned back his chair. "I know how much the life of the young bronze dragon means to all of you at the Weyr, but, quite frankly, I don't care. This past sevenday has been among the most hellish of my life. I've been alone, and have been able to only move and live at night. I've been running away from something that seemed as inevitable. But I had to. Otherwise, everything I've worked for here, in Salt's Clearing, all my life, would be lost to me forever. I have many other reasons for hating the Weyr, but I'll fight anyone who would try to take me from my home. When I go back to my residence, and I look around, I've built almost everything I see there with my own two hands. To have that taken away from me would totally destroy any meaning my life has had up until now, and to me, that is worse than death. Would you, then, kill me to allow your newborn to live?"

D'sen sipped his _klah_ while the hunter gave his speech, beginning to understand how the rogue's mind worked. He was forced to consider what that would feel like: to be dragged away from a home and hearth that he himself had built. However, when it was the dragonman's turn to speak, he refuted the point with his whole heart. "Young man, I understand your sentiment, but the Weyr needs you more than Salt's Clearing. You won't die if you come to the Weyr, and there is no greater gift than the companionship of a dragon. You have a bronze dragon, on top of that, and you've got power to accompany that. You could be Weyrleader one day. By the first shell, you more or less already outrank me, merely by the color of your dragon's hide. And you'll never be without a confidant; you'll never be lonely..."

The rogue interjected with a chuckle. "Don't you see, D'sen? I never am lonely." The renegade rider smiled. "In any event, words alone will not convince me to return to the Weyr. I believe that my agreement with F'lar either implicitly or explicitly allows me to stay here and not be hounded by you 'riders. This conversation is, therefore, over." The man then turned away from D'sen to face the window: a gesture of dismissal.

"Please, rogue..." D'sen realized that he still had no other way to address this rebel. "Please, I beg you to reconsider. There is a life at stake here, and I can't watch you just dismiss it with a casual wave of your hand. Are your beliefs worth killing..."

The hunter interjected. "We in Salt's Clearing have a fascination with windows, since we don't have to contend with the Thread. Look at that flock of wherries out there..."

"That hatchling will die if you don't come back to the Weyr. Please, look inside yourself. Could you live with yourself if that..."

"I don't believe I've ever seen a black wherry before..."

"You saw the gray shade of its coat. Don't fool yourself and think that it will survive on its own. Every dragon needs a rider, and every rider needs a dragon..."

"I suppose that black one isn't a wherry. I wonder what kind of bird it is. I've never seen an avian quite like it before..."

"Rogue! I will not be able to sleep with myself if I leave you here and that poor dragon dies tomorrow or the day after, and I could have gotten you to come to the Weyr with me. And if you really refuse to come with me voluntarily..." D'sen took a deep breath. "I'll have to use force."

"Oh, really? Supposing that you succeed, what will F'lar say when you drag my unconscious body into the Weyr?"

"By the First Shell, I don't know. Threads bare me, I don't know what I'll do from there. But I believe that is something that has to be done." D'sen rose to his feet, and his belt knife flashed into his hand.

Penet sprung to his feet first. "I'm afraid, dragonman, that though I wasn't present at the original creation of the agreement, I heard and witnessed that same deal. I can't allow you to do this." The tanner's hand fell to his sword hilt.

The rogue rose to his feet and waved off Penet. "This is a personal matter. I can handle it on my own." The hunter began to draw his sword.

D'sen knew that if he succeeded, the battle would be over. The dragonman and his belt knife couldn't contend with the reach of the weapon. So, before the rogue finished unsheathing the blade, D'sen blitzed him.

D'sen tackled the rogue and the sword clattered to the ground. Somehow, though, the rogue had already drawn his combat knife, and the tip of the blade was only a fraction of an inch away from D'sen's eye. D'sen noticed that his own belt knife was about the same distance away from the hunter's belly.

Though the world was spinning, the dragonman tried to make out, as best he could, why the stalemate was staying the way it was. He was on top of the rogue, pressing down with his knife, but the rogue had placed his hand over D'sen's and was pressing up. D'sen realized that he had instinctively done the same to the rogue's knife. Because gravity was on his side, the bluerider had a slight advantage, but the renegade seemed to have somehow equalized--

D'sen felt pain near his groin as the rogue delivered a well-placed kick. The pain and disorientation caused D'sen to jolt forward... and D'sen felt his knife sink into something. The rogue yelped and suddenly the tip of the man's knife surged forwards. And then D'sen felt an extremely sharp, stabbing pain in his left eye, and his vision went red.

Before the bluerider knew what was happening, the hunter had reversed the positions, and was now onto of D'sen, pummeling him with blows to the face, some with the hilt of his combat knife. And everything swam into blackness.

* * *

R'bas came into the room panting. "Weyrleader!" 

"Yes, R'bas?"

"I just outside. Rarath informed me that D'sen's blue Sayath inquired as to where in the Clearing the rogue had gone. Has D'sen gone after the rogue?"

"I believe so."

"Why then, by Faranth's shell, didn't you stop him?"

"Because he did what I can't," said F'lar. "I want to go after the rogue myself. But I can't, because we lost the gambit. I'm bound by honor not to. D'sen is going to disregard that and go there anyway."

"You can't hope that D'sen will be able to convince the rogue to return."

"I can hope."

"What if he gets into another fight with the rogue?"

"Then its his own fault. We won't send anyone for him for a few hours."

"What if he kills the rogue, or the rogue kills him?"

"I doubt very much that that will happen."

"Let's hope that you're correct."

* * *

Halen and Penet, having just dismounted from R'bas' Rarath and made directly for the tavern. R'bas didn't say a word as they did, reminiscent of a man who was just following order. Halen knew that the entirety of the Weyr was loathe to let him go. But they had to. And now, he was a free man. 

"I need a drink," said Penet as they opened the door into the drinking establishment.

"So do I," said Halen. "Especially after that mess."

"PENET! OI!" There was a hearty yell from somewhere in the bar. Halen tracked the sound, and saw none other than Salt's Clearing's Healer, Tras, sitting at a table near the door.

Penet and Halen strode towards the table as Tras kicked out two chairs from under the table.

Tras started off the conversation as the two sat down. "Here, have some _klah_." The healer gestured to the large, steaming pot in the middle of the table. "I've been a bit bored for the last couple of days. No injuries or trouble since the... unpleasantness.

Penet poured himself a cup of the liquid, and Halen did the same.

Tras continued. "Where have you two been?"

Penet looked at Halen.

"Do you want to tell him, Halen, or shall I?"

Tras suddenly became relatively excited.

"I remember now! That was your name! Halen! Your father told me years and years ago, but I just couldn't remember it, for the life of me."

Halen shrugged. "You're a man of Salt's Clearing. I've nothing to hide from you. Just don't tell anyone, especially the dragonmen."

Tras thumped the Salt's Clearing medallion on his chest. "On my honor."

"Alright then. I suppose I should tell you the whole story." And Halen started at the beginning, recounting the entire adventure from when he first saw D'sen. It must have been an hour or more as he gave Tras the full account, and both Penet and the healer listened in silence until the very end.

"...and now, I'm here."

For the first time since the story began, Tras spoke. "What was it like, Halen? The Impression, I mean, and how did you resist it?"

"You mean the one that occurred today?"

"Yes."

"Well... it was strange. Firstly, I want to say that I didn't resist it completely. Whatever barrier that I had erected to separate myself from the hatchling is gone. I can _hear_ it clearly, and feel its emotions. I'm just ignoring it. I imagine that that particular problem will go away when the hatchling dies of loneliness or absence of a rider."

"Why did you say that you resisted it, then?"

"First, let me tell you about the Impression. When I looked that hatchling in the eyes, I resisted it at first. I mean, I just tried to block it out completely. But it was like trying to not breathe. You can't do it for very long. So, I was forced to open my heart and mind. And the emotions I felt... I'm sure if that was love, but what the dragon was saying to me felt more like flattery. It was definitely accepting of me, and it was just happy that I was there. And I explained to it that I was very sorry, but I didn't want a dragon. It wasn't the path I had chosen for myself."

"And?"

"Well, there was this incredible urge, this incredible temptation, to just reach out and embrace the creature. It told me that it knew how I felt, but that we were partners. Lifemates. And that we were supposed to be together. And I could feel that it really meant it, too."

"What did you do?"

"I told it again that I was very sorry, but I didn't want it. I realized that all the hate, all the coldness, that I had been focusing at it meant nothing. It just couldn't do anything. I really didn't know what to do. And then the hatchling told me that if I accepted it, if I really Impressed it, I would never be lonely again. I'd never be without a friend or confidant."

"And?"

"For an instant, just an instant, I looked up and away from the dragon at Penet. And I smiled, because it was then I knew I'd won. And I looked that dragon straight in the eyes and told it, mind to mind, that I already had the best friend I could ever ask for. A man who for this past sevenday had followed me through hell and _between_." Halen grinned at Penet.

"And then, the dragon just let me go. It seemed happy, and I realized that it was happy because I was happy. And it knew it would die, but it seemed to think that it would die content, because it knew I wouldn't be lonely when it did go _between_. And that really impressed – not Impressed – but impressed me. The dragons really do give their riders nothing short of absolute loyalty."

Tras was stunned. "Wow... I never would have imagined..."

Just then, an extremely small voice interjected into the conversation. "Excuse me?"

Halen looked up, and at first thought he was looking at an extremely short, old man. Then he realized that the voice was too high pitched, and that he was actually seeing a young boy. However, the color of his hair... no, it wasn't white. The boy was just extremely blond, to the point where his hair seemed white at first glance. And his skin and face were extremely pale. He also seemed to be wearing light, loose-fitting clothes – ill suited for the cold weather.

Halen spoke first. "Are you lost, young man?"

"No..." said the boy slowly. "I meant to be here. To find you."

"To find me? Really? What for?"

"I have to solve the problem that revolves around you."

"Really?" Halen smiled amusedly, and so did Penet and Tras. "And who are you?"

"I don't remember my name. I never do when I'm like this. My memory comes back in little bits at first, then everything in a rush. But seeing you... I can only think about the problem..."

Halen's smile dropped. "You don't remember who you are?"

"Well, I usually do. Just give it a moment, it will come to me."

"Are you cold?"

"Not with the cozy fire in the corner, where I was sitting. I was listening to your story, if you'll forgive me for eavesdropping."

"You're forgiven. But what do you mean you'll solve the problem? I'm home, and I intend to stay here. Unless you think you'll solve the Weyr's problem..."

"No... I don't think its that. It's that Benden's riders will keep hounding you, even though you've made the deal. I think I can help you to stop them. In a few minutes, though. Not yet."

"Really? Well, here." Halen drew a cloak out of his pack. "This may be a little large, but its better than nothing. You'll be cold if you try to go outside. And here..." Halen kicked the last chair out from under the table. "Have a seat."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"I think the bluerider has to sit there."

"Bluerider D'sen?"

"I think so. He'll be here sooner or later. I think he may be on his way already. I'll just sit back down by the fire again. I'll be warm there. Thank you for your concern."

"What an odd child," remarked Tras. "I hope he doesn't suffer from amnesia..."

"I doubt it," said Halen slowly. "I feel something odd about him. I can't put my finger on it. Anyway, I think that D'sen will show up. When, I don't know, but I'm sure he will show up."

As though Halen's words had summoned him, the door to the Tavern swung open and the bluerider walked in. Without a word, D'sen took the last chair at the table. Halen noticed the blonde young boy staring at D'sen intently.

Halen spoke first. "As I was just telling Penet and Tras, I knew you'd be around sooner or later. I have to say, I wasn't expecting you for another hour, at the earliest. I'd also like to say that I think your coming here violates the agreement I made with your Weyrleader."

That sparked the debate. Halen had expected it, and the conversation raged like a sparring match or a battle. Maybe, he decided, a hunt. D'sen was looking for some opening in Halen's argument to spring through for the kill. Halen wouldn't afford him that luxury.

Eventually, Halen told the bluerider that the conversation was over. His decision was final, and Halen ignored D'sen by pretending to be extremely interested in a black bird outside the window. But D'sen wasn't an individual to simply take that kind of direct dismissal. The dragonman's knife was in his hand in a flash.

"Rogue! I will not be able to sleep with myself if I leave you here and that poor dragon dies tomorrow or the day after, and I could have gotten you to come to the Weyr with me. And if you really refuse to come with me voluntarily..." D'sen took a deep breath. "I'll have to use force."

"Oh, really? Supposing that you succeed, what will F'lar say when you drag my unconscious body into the Weyr?"

"By the First Shell, I don't know. Threads bare me, I don't know what I'll do from there. But I believe that is something that has to be done." D'sen rose to his feet, and his belt knife flashed into his hand.

Penet sprung to his feet first. "I'm afraid, dragonman, that though I wasn't present at the original creation of the agreement, I heard and witnessed that same deal. I can't allow you to do this." The tanner's hand fell to his sword hilt.

Halen rose to his feet and waved off Penet. "This is a personal matter. I can handle it on my own." And Halen the Rogue began to draw his sword.

D'sen tackled Halen with surprising speed, before Halen could bring the sword to full use. Fellis and stress had dulled Halen's reactions, had they? Perhaps, but this hunter was still plenty fast. He dropped the sword and brought his knife to bear before he hit ground.

Halen had steeled himself against the initial shock of being tackled, and reacted instantly. His knife was suddenly a split-inch away from D'sen's eye, with D'sen struggling to keep it from getting closer. Likewise, Halen realized that the dragonman's knife was at his belly, and that he too was fighting to keep the knife away. D'sen might have gravity on his side, but Halen still had all the resolve on Pern to fight with, and he would not lose this battle.

The hunter kicked D'sen in the groin, perhaps a miscalculated move. D'sen fell forward, and Halen felt the sharp pain of a wound in his chest. And Halen retaliated, pressing the attack with his own knife, sending it into D'sen's eye. D'sen howled in pain, and, in a moment, Halen had flipped the positions in the wrestling match and was punching D'sen's face and jaw as hard as he could.

In moments, the dragonman fell unconscious. Halen stood and stumbled over to the corner. Mase, the bartender, had rushed over to the fallen bluerider, and vaguely perceived that Tras had taken impromptu control of the whole bar. The journeyman healer himself rushed over to the rogue, Penet by his side.

Tras carefully removed the knife from Halen's chest. There was sickening sucking sound as he pulled it from the body cavity and examined the blade.

"You only nicked D'sen's eye, but this went in a few inches. How do you feel? There's not much bleeding."

Halen asked himself that question, and realized he was breathing hard, but not feeling any better for it.

"I'm having trouble breathing."

"Trouble breathing..." Tras uttered a violent profanity. "The knife may have pierced your diaphragm. That wound is narrow enough to stitch closed and put some cloth and numbweed over, but all of my healer's supplies are on the other side of the Clearing. I'll run for them."

"Halen has some in his pack," said Penet. "I'll get them."

The world was getting blurry and shaky, but Halen felt Tras place his hand over the wound as Penet extracted a needle, thread, cloth, and numbweed mixed with healing salve from his pack.

Tras started with the numbweed, and then made several quick stitches. He cut the thread with the scissors, and then made a second set of stitches with a piece of cloth over the wound. After that, the journeyman slathered a second layer of salve over the patch. Halen noticed that he could breathe again. "That's as airtight as it gets. You shouldn't move around too much for a few hours, at least. The wound was small, and it should heal quickly on its own. Here, we'll carry you to the Hall. Mase already took D'sen there. We've got a stretcher."

Halen then realized that while the process seemed very short, it must have actually been several minutes, possibly a quarter of an hour. A trip across the Clearing to get a stretcher, than to take a fully grown man there on the stretcher, then coming back was not a short process. Halen felt himself being lifted onto said wood-and-cloth stretcher and then being transported. If people had been looking at him strangely before, they certainly were now. Halen was fully aware, but he knew that moving too much would allow air into his diaphragm and effectively suffocate him. He was still having some trouble breathing, but it was much better now that he was sitting still.

Tras and Penet hauled into the "Healer's Hall" that Tras used as a base of operations for medical assistance in Salt's Clearing. He noticed that D'sen was lying in the bed next to him, a patch having been placed over his eye.

"How his he?" Halen asked, jerking his head at the bluerider.

"He'll be fine. Concussion and that wound to his eye. As a matter of fact, he might even recover from the eye wound with minimal loss of vision. It was just a little nick. Most of the damage was actually directed into his cheek, which I patched up."

"Good. I'm glad I didn't kill him."

"A better question, Halen, would be: how do you feel?"

"I feel better. Still having a bit of trouble breathing, but I can breathe."

"Good, you'll recover in a few hours. Until then, I suggest you just lie there. And also--"

"Excuse me?" A timid, familiar voice piped up from the corner of the room. Halen tilted his head, and, at the entrance of the Hall was the blond young man. The boy continued. "I may enter, Healer?"

"Of course," said Tras courteously.

The boy approached Halen's bedside and took Halen's hand in one of his own. Then, he took one of Penet's hands in the other hand. Halen felt something very odd. Another presence... a very familiar.

Penet started forward. "I think I can..."

The young boy detached hands and then stepped back. He bowed his head. "I think that was what I was supposed to do. Thank you for the cloak. I'd best return it." The young man placed the cloak Halen's beside. "It's up to you to figure out the rest." Then, with a wink, the boy disappeared.

"Did you see...?" Tras asked, open-mouthed.

"Halen," said Penet, "I think I can _hear_..."

"I know you can, Penet. I feel it. And I've got a plan. Tras, you have to listen to me very carefully..."

* * *

D'sen awoke, for the second time in all too-few days, feeling like the rogue had boxed him around the ears. Which, of course, the rogue had. His head might hurt, but his memory seemed to working just fine. He briefly checked in with Sayath. 

_How long have been unconscious for?_

_Several hours. I did not panic. I knew you would be fine._

The dragonman opened his eyes, and it took him a moment to realize that one eye wasn't seeing anything. It wasn't in pain, but there seemed to be a patch over it. He looked over at the bed next to him, and saw the rogue, motionless, staring straight at the ceiling. Penet was sitting in a chair next to the rogue's bed, and his face was streaked with red. Tras was also sitting next to the rogue, holding two fingers to the man's neck. Thee significance of that didn't immediately hit D'sen. Instead, the bluerider began to speak.

"Ugh. How long have I been out."

Tras looked over at D'sen. "Several hours. Would have been more, if I'd had my way." The healer's voice was trembling with rage.

"I understand that you're mad at me for hurting the rogue, but I did what I felt was right..."

"What you felt was right?" Tras was almost yelling. "As soon as I'm done here, you're going to take both myself and hunter Penet, as representatives of Salt's Clearing, back to the Weyr. There, we will enumerate this settlements grievances against you, and ask the Weyrleader to discipline you appropriately."

"Discipline _me_? Your grievances? Do you know that I've--"

"Shut your mouth and show some respect, or I'll give you more than a nicked eye and a concussion."

D'sen had trouble understanding the man's reaction so he shifted his weight to see the rogue's bed.

Tras was apparently trying to take the rogue's pulse. His pulse? Why? Surely, the wound hadn't been bad enough to warrant checking vital signs. There was hardly any blood on the rogue's sheets... And then it struck D'sen that the rogue was on a stretcher, which was on a bed. Penet looked at Tras and mouthed something that D'sen couldn't read, and Tras hung his head.

Then, very slowly, the healer reached out with two fingers and closed the rogue's eyes. Then, he threw a blanket over the man's body. And then D'sen realized what that meant.

"He's...?" D'sen didn't dare say it.

"Yes. He's dead."

"But... how did he die?"

"At first, I thought you'd just pierced his diaphragm, so I patched him up. However, it seems that you pierced his lung as well and broke the barrier between the two. He's been slowly suffocating to death for the last few hours. I gave him some fellis to ease his passing, but..."

D'sen sat straight up in his bed, his mouth open and aghast. Then, he fell back down into the bed in resignation. "The irony" he managed to say calmly, "is that with him died the young hatchling that I tried to save."

"You will be no doubt jubilant," said Tras, "to learn that that is not the case. Something extraordinary has happened."

"Extraordinary?"

"The good hunter Penet over there was talking to the rogue just as he died. I don't know if you knew this, but the two were really the best of friends. Penet went to the Weyr when the rogue didn't return after the hatching. Just a few minutes ago, the rogue told Penet, and I quote, 'everything that is mine is yours,' and then took off his hunter's medallion and gave it to Penet. Then, he died. Penet, however, claims that he can now hear the rogue's dragon, and that the creature is still alive."

D'sen shot back up in his bed. "That's incredible."

"It doesn't change the fact that you stabbed a man two and a half inches into the chest and killed him. Here's your knife back." Tras stabbed it into the wood of the table next to D'sen. The blade was still bloody.

"You'll take both of us back to the Weyr in about an hour. In the mean time, I'm going to help transport this body to its burial site. Then, I'll come back and tend to you. Penet has requested that he be allowed to dig the grave and bury his friend alone, given that the rogue had no next of kin. He'll get as long as he needs."

D'sen nodded solemnly. "I'll wait a sevenday, if need be."

Tras shot one last scathing look at D'sen and took hold of one of the stretcher. Penet, with a shovel strapped to his back, took hold of the other end. The two of them together lifted the stretcher and carried it out of the room.

"Rest in peace," D'sen whispered.

* * *

After several minutes, after the men had passed far out of eye and earshot of the Healer's "Hall", Tras and Penet set the stretcher down. Halen threw off the shroud and rose to his feet. 

"Do you know that it was that much harder to breathe under there? You are both excellent actors, by the way. I'd suggest a career in theater for the both of you. Penet is inclined towards Harper Hall already, I know."

Tras laughed. "I already have a profession, thanks. If you'd excuse me, I need to go back and tend to D'sen."

"Go ahead. Meanwhile, Penet, I'll show you where I'd like to be buried..."

/ There will be one more chapter or an epilogue. I seem to have resolved the majority of the main plot of this tale, though. I have also decided that after I finish this plot arc, there will be a sequel. So, keep your eyes out for the next chapter: it will probably be the last. Also, I can guess that at least half of you didn't like that ending. Tell me about it in review, please. I'd really like the feedback, now that the story is drawing to a close.

Oh, and by the way, I did my best to prevent that from seeming Deus Ex Machina. I hope I did well enough in that regard.

Until next time, The ACS Dude /


	10. Epilogue: Swords to Plowshares

/ **Author's Comments:**

Once again, I find that it's been several months since I uploaded the last chapter of The Rogue of Pern. Also, I'm once again forced to apologize to all of those readers who I've kept in suspense these past few months. I've had quite a bit going on in my life which has drained time away from my writing, and has really distracted me from the story. I've also had quite a bit of trouble figuring out exactly what to put into the epilogue, and I've put some serious thought into setting up for the sequel.

It's been more than a year since I started writing The Rogue of Pern. Time does fly, doesn't it? Well, I guess this is the end of this story; another one may be just beginning. I'd really appreciate it if you reviewed with what you thought of the conclusion, and of the story in general. Also, if you've got thoughts about the sequel, feel free to include any ideas. I'm still trying to think of a plot for the new story; right now I only have bits and pieces.

Well, enough about that. As this is the very last installment in the series, I feel obliged to repeat the disclaimer I stated in the prologue. I do not own the idea or have rights to the world of Pern and its associated novels. They are the intellectual property of Anne McCaffery and/or associated publishers/authors. Now, without further ado...

Chapter Information:

Drafting Began: 4:33:00 AM (GMT), August 2, 2007

Drafting Ended: 5:24:11 AM (GMT), August 3, 2007

Uploaded: 5:25:10 AM (GMT), August 3, 2007

The Rogue of Pern

Epilogue: Swords to Plowshares

Salt's Clearing

Present Pass, 16.1.22

Late Morning (Benden Time)

Ten Minutes Later

Penet wiped his brow of sweat as he pushed down on the spade with his foot, driving the blade of the instrument into the cold, hard earth. It was well known around Salt's Clearing that digging in the frozen ground was a hard task, but Penet had never really tried it before. At least, not in this volume of earth. Not digging something the size of a grave.

"You've done enough, Penet. Let me finish it off." Somehow, Penet had known that Halen was going to say something like that.

"No. You may not be dead, but you're still hurt. Don't exert yourself."

Halen scowled. "I don't need to be babied. There's not that much left, since we're not digging a real one. I might be hurt, but it's my grave! What kind of man doesn't dig his own grave?"

Halen stared straight at Penet, maintaining his scowl for a moment. Then, they broke into laughter for a minute more, before Halen could speak again.

"Alright, alright. At the very least, take a break. You've done more than enough today."

Penet nodded his head in acquiescence and lay the spade against a nearby tree. He then picked another tree, and leaned against it, surveying the surrounding area. They both stood by a bend in the nameless river where Halen and Penet had spent so many long summer days fishing and swimming. Halen had, at one point, told Penet that he'd wanted to come back here when it was all over. It was easy to see why; this was probably the most peaceful corner of Salt's Clearing. This time of year, it didn't have the aura of life it had in the spring and summer, but it did have a strange, white wintered beauty. The river didn't freeze, but it was ice cold. It would be no less than folly to go for a swim in the river during the early months, but the sound of running water was extremely comforting.

"You picked a scenic place to put a grave, Halen."

"It's a fitting burial site."

"The Rogue isn't really dead, Halen. He's you."

"But the identity is dead, Penet. I can never be the Rogue of Pern again. Now that the dragonweyr thinks I'm dead, I've got to stay dead in their minds. If I don't, they'll just come back after me again. Don't you realize that I'm going to have to leave Salt's Clearing? In the end, I didn't really get everything back. The danger that someone will recognize me and tell a dragonrider is great enough to keep me away from the Clearing."

"That's terrible." Penet looked over at the river again. "Salt's Clearing is home, and always will be. It's harsh, but it can beautiful, if you know where to look. And we're both leaving it."

"It will always be with us in here." Halen thumped his hand over his heart. "I doubt that either of us will ever leave the Clearing in spirit."

"I know that I won't." Penet scooped up the spade again, and began shoveling. They didn't have much further to go, as they weren't digging a real grave. They were just giving the impression of freshly turned earth. However, they did have to stay away from the Clearing long enough to convince D'sen that Penet had spent his time burying a corpse.

Penet shoveled for a few minutes, before Halen once again broke the silence.

"There's another one of those black-colored birds." Penet could tell, somehow, that this wasn't why Halen had really broken the silence. He wanted to say something much more important. Still, Penet once again lowered the spade, and casually looked over at the avian.

"Yeah, I've been seeing them more and more recently, lately. They're not wherries, so I don't know what kind of bird they are. I hear they some odd ones down in Ista. Maybe it came from there."

"And it migrated north for the winter, did it? Likes it squelching in the hot months and freezing in the colder ones?"

Penet shrugged and moved to grab the spade again.

"Penet?" Halen's voice was strangely soft.

The tanner paused. "Yes?"

"You really can hear it, can't you. The dragon, I mean."

Penet nodded solemnly. "Yes, I can. I've been able to hear him ever since that strange young man held our hands, back in the Hall."

"But can you feel it, Penet? I mean... I can't describe it. I can feel what it is feeling, I can _hear _what it is saying as though it was thinking my thoughts for me."

"I can hear his thoughts... almost as though someone is constantly whispering them in my ear."

"Can you feel it, though? Feel what it is feeling."

Penet paused for a moment, as though he was concentrating. "Vaguely, only a little bit. Is he feeling content, right now? Kind of... altruistically happy?"

"Yes, that's a better description than I could have come up with. I always said that you should have been a harper. You really do have a way with words. But for me... it's still as though I am feeling what it is feeling. What _he _is feeling, as you say. You'll have to get used to calling the dragon 'him', if you're going to be a dragonrider of Benden Weyr."

Penet nodded. "Your link seems to be much stronger than mine. It's still the link that only Impression can make. I suspect that the boy who we met was immensely powerful. Who has ever heard of someone linking a man to a dragon without Impression? It's ludicrous."

"Keep in mind, they don't know what happened. Keep the boy a secret. They think that I transferred the link to you with my dying breath, so they must think that I was an incredibly powerful individual. Also, to be convincing, you might want to pretend that your link isn't as weak as it is."

"That will be difficult. I'm having to concentrate extremely hard merely to sense your dragon's emotions, Halen. It's just lucky that I can hear his thoughts without focusing, or I'd be walking through the halls of Benden Weyr with my eyes forever screwed up."

The mix of classical language and modern slang evoked a blurt of laughter from Halen.

"You haven't exchanged names, have you, Penet?"

"No, not yet. I've heard that that is one of the first signs of bond between dragon and rider, though. It usually occurs at Impression. Now that you've gone and rewritten the entire lorebase of dragonkind, I'll be lucky if we exchange names at all. It would be exceptionally awkward if your dragon knew that you were still alive and refused to accept me as its rider."

"It - he - will."

"How can you know that?"

"I just do. I can also tell you that I don't think that he will go telling the entire Weyr that I'm alive. I can't explain it, but he knows that I'm happier this way. When I looked him in the eye, I didn't really Impress, but I think that we reached an understanding. Even if I don't love him, I'm forced to respect that he was willing to face death happily if it would ensure my happiness... my freedom. I have to say, I'm actually a little happy that we both get to live through this. I may hate dragonkind, but not enough to kill needlessly over it. At least everyone will reach some measure of peace. Except you, Penet. Are you sure that you'll be fine in the dragonweyr."

"I'm sure that I'll adjust. After everything I've seen these past few days, and everything you've been telling me for years, I can't say that I've got that much love left for Benden Weyr. But it's a life I can get used to. I'll never forget where I came from." He thumped the medallion hanging around his neck.

"Penet... today, you've done something for me that I'll never be able to repay. You've taken the life that I wouldn't... You're going to take the life that I don't have to courage to live. I can't even begin to express my gratitude. You're going to go be locked up there, just so I can walk free."

"Well, I hardly think that they'll keep me locked up. I think I'm going to go join the weyrlings. Though I'm wondering how they intend to explain this to the other weyrlings, come to think of it. How does humble Hunter Penet simply walk out of the blue and into their group, accompanied by a bronze dragon? I don't think that there have been any other recent hatchings at any of the other Weyrs. Maybe they'll just tell everyone the truth, but its a bit of a hard story to believe. Who would have believed it?"

"I don't know. I really am more concerned about your well-being, Penet."

"I'll be fine, Halen. Benden Weyr isn't filled with bloodthirsty killers,"

"You're going to spend the rest of your life protecting Pern from the thread. You, a man who never had the same privilege or the same protection. You, from a place that most have never even heard of. And you're doing it so I don't have to. If you get injured in the line of service to this thread-bared world, I'll never forgive myself."

"Then I'll make sure that I won't get hurt. I'm more concerned about fitting in. Especially if I have to pretend that I can feel and hear my – your – dragon just like all of the other weyrlings. I have to actively concentrate to feel its normal feelings."

"That will lead to awkward situations. Good luck when it matures – but look. I just can't let you do everything on your own. I can't let you spend the rest of your life as a dragonrider on my behalf. You've got friends here – I don't."

"Halen, its _fine_."

"But--"

"It's fine, Halen."

"Alright, but if you ever need anything, find a way to contact me. Have the dragon bespeak me and I'll get it to you. Whatever it is."

"I feel worse about you, Halen. What are you going to do?"

"You mean, outside of Salt's Clearing?"

"Yes. As you said, you can't stay here. You've got to go somewhere. And you've got to keep your head down as long as you're around here, or a dragonrider might recognize you."

"That's a possibility, and I guess it's one that I can't ignore. I'll think of something."

"Well, if you ever need to get somewhere fast, just contact me. After I learn to go _between_, I'll take you there, if I get any time off."

"I'll be fine, Penet. I know Benden Hold and Bitra Hold well enough. I should be able to get around."

"But Halen, you can't stay at Benden or Bitra Hold. They have dragonriders as frequent guests. If you're recognized, then everything we've worked for... what I'm going to do... it will all have been pointless."

"Then I'll go further on. I've got to leave my identity here behind. It's sad, but it's got to be done. If I can't stay here, or south of here, then I'll go west. Or maybe even further south. I hear they need good men down in Southern..."

"So, we are both leaving Salt's Clearing..."

"We've already talked about this, Penet."

Both men stood in silence. Without a word going between them, Penet knew that neither one of them could really bare to leave the Clearing. That's why they'd said – why they'd like to think that they'd always be here in spirit. So many friends... so many dedicated, strong pioneers. It was a shame to leave them all behind. Halen and Penet had grown up here. Maybe what they had said really was true. Maybe they never really would truly leave the Clearing.

"Do you remember how we used to fish in that river, Halen?"

"Yes. And I learned to swim in it. I told you that I wanted to return to this exact spot. I've probably got more happy memories here than anywhere else in the whole of Salt's Clearing. When we were tired of hunting or just wanted to relax, we'd head back here and just take a break. This place will always symbolize peace to me."

Penet nodded, as though they were burying the river and this little corner of the forest itself, not digging a false grave for a dead identity.

They went back to silence, and then Penet picked the shovel back up. He started digging again, and as his forehead became riddled with sweat again. Minutes slipped by in silence, and Penet knew that Halen wasn't going to break it again. This was the peace he remembered, nothing but the sound of the river...

Bit by bit, lump by lump, Penet dug out the grave. He dug it deeper than he really needed to do, but still much shallower than a real grave would be. So much time had gone by. So very much time. When they'd just been children in Salt's Clearing, they'd grown to be closer than most friends. There weren't many youths in the Clearing. It was a rugged, desperate, lifestyle. Being holdless was hard.

The years had passed by. Halen, who already lost his mother, came to lose his father. Penet lost many loved ones himself, and time had marched on. Halen had spent time in both Bitra and Benden Holds, and Penet had learned to tan. They'd hunted together, and that was an experience like no other. They'd laughed together, and played together... days that seemed long gone now.

It wasn't hard to understand Halen, or why he'd developed such hate for society, and for dragonkind. He was holdless, but had pretended to be a holder while he was in Benden Hold and Bitra Hold. He'd heard what people had said about the holdless, not even bothering to save their discrimination for when one such miscreant was in their midst. Halen had seen firsthand what Penet had only heard of from trading caravans and traveling merchants: society's treatment of the holdless.

When Halen had come back from those southern holds, he'd come back with tales of that maltreatment. Officials as high as craftmasters would sell goods to holdless only at many times their true price. Holders who earned less respectable livings would kick and spit on men who ought to have held their heads high. And the general attitude of the greater society towards the holdless was also appalling. Following the Lady Holdless Thella, many regarded the holdless as nothing better than thieves and bandits. One of the trade caravans from Salt's Clearing had actually been turned back from Benden Hold, and many refused to even sell goods to the holdless.

Salt's Clearing had been founded on the will of the men who had been dismissed from everywhere else. Holdless men were holdless not by choice, but because they were deemed undesirable or unproductive. Not all were bandits. Many were simply unfortunate. Farmers who no longer had land to farm, now that their holdings were consumed by the thread. Men who had been injured and were ejected from the so-called "honorable" holds because they couldn't work anymore. In some cases, even the sick and the elderly were turned away. Many times, perfectly good men and women, hard working as anyone else, were dismissed from their posts simply because there wasn't enough room to keep them.

Thread had always fallen in Salt's Clearing. It had done so ever since the founding of the Clearing. However, there wasn't anything worth-while this far north. The ground was cold and stony in the hottest part of the summer, and Thread would not grow there. Most of time, Thread would simply crack and freeze and crumble impotently before it could ever even do harm. The cold was the greatest enemy and the best friend of the hunters.

No dragons flew about Salt's Clearing. Ever. It was a waste of time and energy to do so this far north, where there was nothing worth defending. The snowy wastes would never be infected by the parasitic Thread, because the soil there was so worthless that not even the ravenous blight would infect it. Even the trees that grew in Salt's Clearing were good for little but firewood. But somehow, a society thrived here.

Penet doubted that the Conclave had ever even mentioned Salt's Clearing. No one ever dared call it a Hold, even though it all but was. It might not really protect the Hunters from the Thread, but no one in the Clearing cared. A few had died to the Thread, that was a true, real concern. But far fewer than if they'd decided to live in some open field in the middle of the Northern Continent. But, because they were holdless, no one ever really recognized their achievements. Salt's Clearing had everything, even Gathers.

Halen had always taken great pride in Salt's Clearing, as many had. Everyone really felt that way about the Clearing. It was something that everyone had built up together. Something that you'd built with your own two hands. There was an incredible sense of community in the air, and a renewed optimism that no one could quite explain. That was when Salt's Clearing had had its first Gather. To celebrate this newfound aura of completeness, the indescribable feeling that everyone had made something for themselves, Salt's Clearing had held a Gather. That had been a happy time.

The day the dragonriders came, after they left... Halen hadn't looked angry. He had looked pained. Penet didn't know how many people of Salt's Clearing shared Halen's sentiments. If there were other men who believed that the Clearing owed Benden Weyr nothing, as the Weyr did nothing for the Clearing. However, many still adhered to the traditions of old. Penet thought back on how please young G'ron's mother had been when he had been Searched.

Penet ultimately agreed with Halen. When he thought back on all that... on these past few weeks. Halen had called him a brother only a few days ago. They'd done so much in the name of little more than ideals, it was unbelievable. Today, Halen had made his point. With luck, the Weyrs would think twice before Searching an unwilling candidate again.

"That's deep enough, Penet."

Penet became aware of his surroundings again for the first time in... he didn't know how long. It was indeed deep enough. Halen picked up the cloth that he'd brought with him, that he'd been covered with when he was on the stretcher. It was a shroud, used to cover the dead. Halen spread it carefully into the grave. Penet wordlessly began to fill the hole. As he did, he spoke.

"I can't believe that we might never see each other again, Halen. I can't believe that we're going separate ways." Penet realized that there were tears, as well as sweat on his forehead.

"Neither can I. I... it was just this morning, as I stared that dragon in the eyes, that I told it that I didn't need a friend, that I didn't need a confidant. I told it I already had the best friend I could ever ask for. And now he's making a huge sacrifice for me, and I may never see him again. It's hard to believe..." Halen broke off, and Penet realized that he'd just thought of something. Halen seemed to be concentrating.

_Can you hear me, Penet?_

Penet jumped at the thought intruding into his mind, but the voice was very familiar, and very comforting. He realized that Halen had discovered a gift – perhaps an accidental gift, perhaps the greatest gift that the young, blond boy could have given them.

_I can._

"We may go our separate ways, Penet, and I may have lost an identity, but we'll never be that far apart."

"Can the dragon _hear_ us, Halen?"

"Yes, I'm almost certain of it. I think it's as though we're all standing – you, me, and the dragon – in a room. We can talk to each other, but we'll be overheard by the third person there. Still, that's fine with me. I do not think that your dragon would betray me or your."

_My dragon,_ though Penet. That was something that he'd have to get used to. Was it really still Halen's dragon, at heart? Halen still hated dragonkind, there was no doubt there. But if it had not earned Halen's love, it had earned his grudging respect. _Not it,_ Penet reminded himself. _He. And Halen's respect is something._

Penet finished filling in the grave, and rolled the large, circular rock they had decided on for the tombstone to the head of the grave. The two men stood in silence for a moment.

"We're about to go our separate ways, Penet. If you're going to go through with it, don't look back and don't regret it. It's not as bad as it could be." _I'll never be too far away._

Halen turned to leave, but Penet called to him. "Wait!"

Halen stopped and turned. Penet continued to speak. "We need to write something on the headstone."

Penet picked up two stones off of the ground and used them as an impromptu hammer and chisel. He wrote roughly on the headstone: "_Here lies"_

"Here lies who, Halen?"

Halen smiled and took the stones from Penet. He chiseled the last words into the tombstone. Then, with nothing more than a smile, he walked into forest. Penet was left staring at the words for a moment, smiling, before he too turned to return to the Healer's "Hall". As he thought of the phrase, he had to ask himself, what else was there to say? The inscription read: "_Here lies The Rogue of Pern."  
_

* * *

/ That's all, that's it, that's a wrap. 70,000 words, 60 reviews, and ten chapters later, here we are. It's been more than a year. I started writing this story last year, on the 6th of July. Now, we're about a year and a month later, and I'm done with this whole book. As I mentioned last chapter, I have also decided that after I finish this plot arc, there will be a sequel. Now that you've read the story, tell me what you think. Read, review, please. I've put a lot of time and quite a bit of thought and spirit into this story. Also, if you've got suggestions for the next book, I'm all ears. I'm still trying to figure one out myself. But, rest assured. 

Halen, the Rogue of Pern, will return. Penet, probably Tras, and definitely the mysterious blond boy will also make another appearance. Keep your eyes peeled for my next book. It may be posted in this same story, or it may be a new one. Rest assured, I'll be thinking about it.

Until next time, The ACS Dude /


	11. Prologue: The Company He Keeps

/**Author's Comments:**

Again, I find that four months have slipped by since I last wrote a chapter in my story. Of course, it looks like we've got a whole new book of the story to contend with, and I had to formulate a plot (a task at which I was only partially successful). However, luckily for everyone, I think I've got the first few chapters planned out, so, at the very least, I can write a little of this new story.

I haven't read any books I hadn't read before, but I have started to re-read some of the old books. I'm also consulting a timeline. Our story opens, as you can see, a little more than ten months after where we left off Halen, Penet, and Pern itself. We've also moved westward, as this chapter is set in Crom. Anyway, you can read the rest for yourself. You know the drill. Please read and review: tell me what you think about the story title, the plot, my dire need for better proofreading habits, etc.

By the way, since this is a new story, I feel compelled to state the disclaimer again: I do not own the idea or have rights to the world of Pern and its associated novels. They are the intellectual property of Anne McCaffery and/or associated publishers/authors.

I am unreliable as ever and will update sporadically at best. (If you're a regular reader of my work, you probably know that months can go by without updates.) However, I do intend to update around Christmas, so you'll probably at least one more chapter this month.

**Chapter Information:**

Drafting Began: 8:12:56 PM (GMT), December 2, 2007

Drafting Ended: 5:10:23 AM (GMT), December 3, 2007

Uploaded: 5:26:04 AM (GMT), December 3, 2007

The Smuggler of Pern

Prologue: The Company He Keeps

Crom Hold

Present Pass, 16.12.2

Early Evening (High Reaches Time)

Ten Months Later

Halen swished around the water in his glass, looking at the clear, tasteless liquid with a bored expression on his face. Where was this fellow that Lehn claimed he would meet? Halen stopped swirling the glass and raised it to his lips, draining it. As he reflexively refilled the glass from the pitcher on the table, Halen began to internally question Lehn's reliability. He was a good, honest man to be sure, but he was forgetful. This wouldn't have been the first time that some small, crucial fact had slipped his mind and wasted hours of everyone's time. His heart was in the right place, and he was a hard worker, but privately, Halen was glad to see the back of him.

Halen downed half of the shot glass. It _was_ only water, so no harm done no matter how much he drank of it. However, he realized, it probably looked strange to anyone who cared to shoot a sideways glance at him. The bar around him was filled to brim with happy patrons, singing drunks, chuckling friends. In the whole establishment, it seemed there was but one man sitting alone. A tall, dark man wearing all green and brown (bad-luck colors, in the Pernese superstition), heavily armed (Halen ran through all the weapons on his person in his mind – a sword, two-belt knives, and assorted daggers, plus a bow in his bag), an odd medallion (the token that marked Halen as a Salt's Clearing hunter, which he had been unable to part with), not to mention rather moody-looking and withdrawn. Combine his ruffian-like appearance with the fact that he appeared to be drinking hard liquor, and one might think that Halen was prone to spring up and start a brawl at any minute. Halen snorted. Hard liquor. That reminded him of a prank he'd played on the Benden bluerider D'sen, so many months ago.

He cast his mind back, ten months (only ten months? It seemed like many turns), to a small tavern (the only small tavern) in Bitra, where the wine was watery and the prices highly inflated. D'sen and his wing had been turning the Hold upside-down for him, Halen, the Rogue of Pern. Disheartened and thirsty, D'sen had come into the tavern for a drink and had nearly walked straight past Halen on the way out. Halen been drinking water, but had pretended to be drinking stronger stuff... then, he'd thrown himself out the door and run. The events of that faithful sevenday flicked through his mind, as they had done so many times in the past. The appearance of that mysterious blond child – whom Halen had never seen again – the knife-fight, the wound...

Halen ran his hand over the scar on his chest. His scars never seemed to fully heal. This one would forever be a reminder of the day that he left Salt's Clearing and his true persona (the name "Halen") behind. He could never again, or at least not quickly, return to his home and hearth, for fear of being recognized as supposed dead man. It was sad result, really. Because Halen had somehow, despite infinite hostility and distake for the dragonweyr, managed to Impress a dragon, he had become a marked man. Benden had searched thoroughly and desperately for him, claiming that the young dragon would die without him. Finally, Halen had a cut a deal – a bet, really – with F'lar, and had won. Still, D'sen had come after him and challenged him. Halen had been wounded in the ensuing fight, but managed to subdue the bluerider. However, it became apparent to him that he would never be able to find peace while the Weyr still hounded him. He wanted to fake his own death – but the hatchling would be as good as a pulse.

Penet had volunteered to take Halen's place at the dragonweyr. And so, Halen had traded his best friend, the only thing that had let him fight off the dragon's influence, to Benden Weyr for his quasi-freedom. Not at all a fair trade, but one Halen had still made, grudgingly. He had then done little more than gather up his things before leaving Salt's Clearing and striking out west. Since then, Halen had obtained passage out of territory beholden to Benden Weyr by offering his services as an escort to trading convoys. He had been somewhat amused to find out that though no one seemed to have ever encountered one, ever trader out there just _knew_ that there were hordes of holdless raiding parties out there, waiting to spring on their wagons and steal everything of value. If Halen was willing to put his life and limb on the line defending their convoys from such barbarian forces, then they would pay him well for it.

Halen believed that there was a seed of truth to those rumors. Many holdless men were desperate beyond words, starving and in utter poverty. He wouldn't be surprised if many-a-time, such trading convoys found their food shipments a few pounds light, or that a few valuables had been taken. However, it had been some time since the only real organized band of holdless raiders, under the command of the Lady Thella, had been forcibly dissolved by a combination of weyrmen and contingents from the hold guards. Halen doubted that there were any more such malicious groups of bandits. Still, the mere rumor of such raiders had gotten Halen to Crom, on the other side of the continent from Benden Weyr. Though he was actually a little less than seventeen turns, he looked well into his twenties. His various scars and wounds from years of mildly dangerous hunting made him look like the hardened combat veteran he professed to be.

No sign of this contact Lehn had spoken of. Halen gave another good look around. They had arranged to meet here, in this bar, at this table, about half and hour ago. Another fifteen minutes and he'd leave. Halen downed the rest of the glass of water and continued his stroll through his memories.

Penet and he – they had invented some cock-and-bull story about Halen on his deathbed somehow transferring his mental link to the dragon from himself to Penet. In reality, Halen still had this mental link. The strange young blond boy had somehow connected to Penet to the dragon, but had done so through Halen. This was really the only bright side of Halen's life during the past few months. His friend was perpetually at his side in spirit, if not in body. Though they were a continent apart, they each was only a thought away from the other. Halen instinctively checked the link between them. Penet and the dragon were both asleep, which was to be expected. It was late night in Benden, currently.

The mental link might have been called a blessing by some. A miracle by others. Still, that hadn't been all fun and games for Penet. Penet, lodged with the weyrlings in Benden Weyr, was having some problems. He could _hear_ the dragon, but he couldn't _feel_ him very well. That is, Penet could have a telepathic conversation with the dragon (all of which Halen always heard, which was only somewhat annoying), but he had a hard time feeling the emotions of the dragon. Halen, on the other hand, could feel the dragon just fine. This had led Halen to hypothesize that Penet was linked to the dragon, through Halen, but Penet's contact was dulled because of this "mental gap".

Penet and Halen conversed often, and Halen seemed to know almost everything that was happening to Penet or to Benden Weyr. When Penet and Tras had arrived in Benden to report "the rogue"'s death and lodge official complaint with the weyrleader about the actions of D'sen, Halen might well as well have been standing in the room for the questioning. Penet reported everything that was said to him. The only twinge of regret that Halen had ever felt for anything he had done that week had occurred while he was listening in on that interview. He could not actually hear the weyrleader speak, but Penet said that F'lar's wrath was terrible. D'sen had violated an old-standing precept of dragonmen: never be the aggressor in a fight. F'lar himself had killed men in the past (Fax was the only person Halen could call to mind, though there might have been others – F'lar had only wounded T'ron), but he had never been the first man to draw a knife. D'sen had started a fight, and now there was a corpse as proof. Afterwards, Penet reported that he didn't see D'sen, even at mealtimes, for more than sevenday. Fortunately, the bluerider started showing his face again soon, and he seemed to have recovered from both the shock of his own deed and from F'lar rebuke.

Halen also had the full account of what happened with regards to the dragon. Penet was led to the room with the hatchling bronze, and had stared it in the eyes, telling it that he was Penet and that he was to its 'rider. Of course, it already knew this, but the act was important. Furthermore, Halen's personal experience indicated that the exchange of names was crucial for Impression, and if it didn't take place with Halen, maybe it would take place with Penet.

The young bronze, incredibly, had informed Penet that its name was Kritith. (Later on, when the dragon was asleep, Halen had admitted that he did like the name. It had a fierce ring to it. However, he always referred to Kritith as "the dragon" or similar mentally.) Furthermore, it seem to have suddenly developed the appetite that it had previously been lacking. From Penet's detailed accounts, the young bronze grew quickly, almost explosively, and required constant attention. This is where the emotional link problem came in – when Penet was experiencing stronger emotions of his own, he had trouble feeling the dragon's. More than once, he had been forced to ask Halen. Halen knew that ought to feel annoyed for these interruptions, but he simply couldn't be angry with Penet – not after what he'd offered to do for Halen.

The annoying part was that Halen, unlike Penet, was still firmly attached to the dragon's emotions. He seemed to constantly feel happy, or tired, or, most frequently, hungry, when he ought not to feel any of these things. His respites were when this dragon, this Kritith, was soundly asleep. Still, it was welcome change from having to take fellis every day just to avoid the mental link between dragon and rider. Halen always could volunteer for the graveyard shift driving the caravan, and he'd have plenty of time with his own emotions.

Speaking of plenty of time, Lehn's contact still hadn't shown. It had probably been more than fifteen minutes. Lehn was the head of the trading convoy that Halen had escorted to Crom from the High Reaches. How the man had obtained the rank, Halen would never know, because he was near-brainless. As was being demonstrated now. Lehn was supposed to have written a letter of recommendation to a convoy master with a caravan going eastward (no reason to stay all the way on the west coast, just well away from Benden). Unfortunately, it would seem that this friend of Lehn's wasn't going to show up. Halen sighed. That letter was probably sitting in Lehn's desk drawer.

He drained the glass, grabbed his bag, and stood to leave. No sooner had he gotten to his feet then did the door swing open. Halen sat back down. The man entering the grubby bar could only be Lehn's contact. He matched Lehn's description perfectly, brown hair, hazel eyes, slightly on the short side and medium build, dressed in seemingly normal clothes but with subtle traces of finery that marked him as a merchant. Furthermore, he had spotted Halen and was walking towards the hunter.

The merchant slid back the other chair at the table, and, without asking, sat and poured himself a measure of water.

"Are you Lehn's friend?" asked Halen.

The man took a swig from the glass he'd just poured himself before answering. "Friend, I think, might be a bit of an overstatement. I know Lehn." He spoke with a slight southern accent, though from where in the south, Halen couldn't quite say. Southeast, to be sure. While Halen analyzed his speech, the man shivered, despite the roaring fire a few feet away.

"Cold, isn't it?" The merchant asked. "Crom winter is freezing."

"I've been in colder," remarked Halen with an air of indifference.

"Ah, I forgot. Lehn said you're from around Bitra, even further north than Crom. I'm Istan, myself. Not used to this kind of weather."

"You're not hear to discuss the weather," said Halen, with a hint of annoyance. "It was understanding that you have a job offer for me."

"Ah, yes..." The merchant trailed off. "Where to begin?"

"For a start, do you have a name?"

The man chuckled. "I could ask you the very same question. Lehn wrote that you go by 'rogue'. Is that correct?"

Halen nodded. He had gone by 'rogue' ever since he'd left Salt's Clearing. It was a combination of his feeling that his "Halen persona" had really died back in Salt's Clearing, and not the reverse, and his feeling that he was still a rogue, still on the run from the Weyr. He'd kept his true name secret from everyone. Even from his own dragon, Kritith. He'd never told the bronze, and he'd asked Penet to do the same. It was difficult to explain why. He just felt that his name was somehow sacred, and that to yield it would be to expose part of himself to attack. And his entire job was to defend.

"Mind if I ask why you go by that?"

"Yes, actually. It's highly personal. Now, if you know my name, what's yours."

"Gamar, merchant extraordinaire. Pleased to meet you, even if the feeling is not mutual. You see, I've need of a reliable, discreet, man. I need you too-"

Halen cut him off. "-I know the long and the short of it. You're afraid of holdless raiders or other bandits, and you need an escort, and you could use the extra muscle and the extra caravan driver. You'd like to hire me for all of those reasons, and you'll give me either a cut or a flat payment provided I defend your caravan from attack and help you with all those other things. I am close?"

"Partially. I'm not so worried about the raiders, though."

Halen raised an eyebrow. "If you want dumb muscle, you can probably find it cheaper elsewhere."

"I didn't say I needed dumb muscle or manual labor or what have you. I'm looking for an escort. Someone who knows how to keep his mouth shut and will be satisfied with his payment. Someone who's reliable. Word has it that you're all of those things."

Halen nodded again, and waited for Gamar's explanation of his need for an escort if he wasn't worried about holdless attacks.  
Gamar seemed to be trying to explain this. "I... am not what most would call a "trader". Some might call me a merchant, but most would call me something else. Let me put it like this: I don't necessarily do my trading within the bounds of the law."

"You're a smuggler."As Halen said this, Gamar hissed at him to be quiet and jerked his head around to see if anyone had overheard them.

"I_said_ this required discretion. The ability to keep your mouth shut."  
"Discretion you'll get, depending on the pay. If the price is right, no one will ever hear a word of this from me if they threatened to chain me outside in threadfall. I'm sure that Lehn impressed upon you that I am trustworthy?" Gamar nodded. "Then," continued Halen, "what is your offer?"  
Gamar stared at him. "You don't even want to know the goods that we're – ah- dealing in? Check the risk of the job?"

"I greatly suspect that the fee you intend to give me will tell me a great deal about the risk of the job that you are offering. The fact that you require an armed escort already speaks to that."

Gamar sighed. "Very well. But I warn you, I won't haggle. Not a mark higher." As he said this, the smuggler pulled out a scrap of paper from somewhere within the folds of his cloak and began to scribble.

"We'll see," said Halen. He pulled the scrap of paper across the table towards himself. He read the scribble once, then again to make sure he read it correctly the first time. He had. His eyes nearly popped right out of their sockets. The figure was... very large. "Are you sure you didn't forget a decimal point somewhere, Gamar?"

"Quite sure. I my -ah- line of work, profits are quite large, as I'm sure you can see. Hence, so are your wages."

"Very well," said Halen, casually tossing the scrap of paper into the fire, "I'll hold you at your word, but you've piqued my curiosity. What are you dealing in? Gold? Some other precious metal? Fabulous gems, perhaps? Because assuming you're giving me a relatively small fraction of your profits, you're making quite a lot of money."

The merchant across from Halen grinned and shook his sleeves. The hunter could clearly hear the jingle of a number of bracelets. The motion also allowed Halen to see some of the ornaments, enough to see that they were all gold and silver. There also might have been the glint of a steel blade – but Gamar finished his display too quickly for Halen to be sure.

"As you can see, Rogue, I do make a goodly sum in honest and humble trade. Now, before I show you the cargo, you have tell me whether you accept my offer. Right now, no stalling."

"I accept. For that sum, I'd escort your convoy to the Red Star while being hounded by all the weyrs of Pern. It will, at the very least, keep my lips sealed."

"Very well. Just remember the old sailor's axiom: 'Loose lips sink ships.' That doesn't only pertain to sailing."

Both men rose, and Halen followed Gamar out of the grubby drinking establishment, and out into the Hold greater. As Gamar weaved in and out of passages, leading Halen towards some exit, the hunter couldn't help but note the architecture. Crom, home of the Master Minecrafthold, seemed to have been built in layers. Every time the previous Hold boundaries were insufficient, the miners who called these mountains their home seemed to just hollow the mountain out a little more. There was still plenty of mountain to go through before they carved straight out to the other side, but Crom was definitely one of the largest Holds Halen had ever seen. The same was true of the minor Holds in the area – they were dug straight into the mountain, into solid rock rather than natural caves, but were still somehow larger than almost any other Holds Halen had ever seen.

However, there was little to be said for Crom's architecture or layout plan. It was among the most packed, confusing, and convoluted series of rooms, streets, and halls that Halen had ever been in (and he had lived in Bitra for a time). Still, it had a kind of subtle impressiveness to it, the idea that humankind could dig straight through what even the Thread could not, and take up residence in within the mountain's depths.

Eventually, Halen was knocked from his thoughts by the smell of fresh air. They were outside, and Gamar was still walking, presumably to find his convoy. Fresh air, now there was a welcome change. It was stuffy inside the holds. This hunter was used to being outside.

After passing several other clusters of convoys and trains, Gamar finally stopped in front of a particularly sturdy-looking pair of wagons, each with two drowbeasts next to it them. Gamar went to the back doors of one of the two wagons and began to fiddle with the locks. The drowbeast nearest to Halen turned its head towards him and bleated softly. Halen petted it. He liked drowbeasts – they had them wild in Salt's Clearing. You didn't really hunt them unless you absolutely had too, because they were tough and bony. Some people domesticated them, though, as the Salt's Clearing variety were remarkably fleet-footed and agile on the mountain range. They could live off of surprising little, too, eating what vegetation forced its way up through the frozen, cracked earth. They were used as workhorses by everyone on Pern, right alongside the fleet-footed runnerbeasts and some of the herdbeasts. Halen let his thoughts wander as he absent-mindly patted the drowbeast until a though struck him.

"Gamar?"

"Eh?" The merchant was still fiddling with the locking mechanism on the cart doors. Security indeed.

"Where is this shipment going to?"

"Telgar Hold. I thought you knew that already, Rogue. Thought you requested this job because you wanted to head east."

"Just making sure. I didn't know that this was a smuggling mission-" Gamar winced at the phrase "-so I wanted to be sure of the destination."

Gamar finally finished with the lock, and door to the wagon swung open with a soft thud. If Halen had been expecting fabulous jewels or precious stones as he had mentioned earlier, he would have been surprised. But the contents of the wagon were not so dramatic. Most of the cart was filled to the brim with small, black rocks, neither regularly cut nor particularly shiny or valuable-looking. In fact, they looked quite worthless, Halen knew better, however.

He reached into the mounting pile and pulled one of the rocks out of the mess. A fine, black dust came off on his hand. Halen reached his hand down to his belt and drew out his knife, and dug into the rock. It was as black on the inside as it was on the outside.

"And here I was thinking you'd robbed the Master Minecrafthall of all its gold." Halen took one last look at the rock before placing it back in the pile. "Cromcoal," he announced, "commonly found in the mountains of Crom and other sites around Pern. A kind of fuel rock, burn it for heat in cooking or what have you. And, despite its appearance, quite expensive. I know because in – well, where I come from it was a much desired commodity, and the traders were always complaining about the price and how they could never get their hands on much."

"True," acknowledged Gamar.

"Furthermore, if memory serves, Telgar Hold has an import tariff on fuel rocks. I'm not sure how steep it is, but I'll bet its something significant."

"Also true," said Gamar, beginning to grin.

"So, I'll guess that this convoy is smuggling-" Gamar again winced at the word "-so many dragonweights of Cromcoal into Telgar Hold, past the Hold guard and the tax man, sell it at reduced price because we didn't pay the tax, and have the tariff lace our pockets rather than that of old Lord Holder Larad."

"A good plan, but not the one this convoy is following. Ours is a little less grandiose, and a little more subtle." Halen's face, which had been curving into a grin, fell.

"Then what are we smuggling?" (Gamar winced again.) "Not that I have anything against Lord Holder Larad, but there's nothing else of value in this cart. Unless you really did rob the Master Minercrafthall and hid the valuables under all this Cromcoal."

Gamar chuckled again. "No robbery. The seller and buyer both fully understood that the method of transportation would be somewhat illicit, and that we would have to 'transport' their goods in under the very nose of the Lord Holder."

Halen jumped on the statement. "The buyer? You already know who the buyer is going to be? Then this is something that was pre-arranged... or requested. What _are_ we ... 'transporting' then? Some kind of specialty good?"

Gamar chuckled for the third time. "Specialty good... yes, one could say that. Here, let me show you." The convoy master walked over to the open wagon's doors and began rummaging around in the coal pile. Halen watched closely as he cleared the entire pile of coal out from the top of a small section of the floor of the wagon. The merchant then pried up the floorboard with what looked like considerable effort, and drew a small box out from under it. The box was small, rectangular, and wooden, but had a large iron padlock on the front.

"Smuggler's compartment," remarked Halen. Rather than wincing, Gamar just grinned sheepishly.

"Well actually, we have these under more or less all of the boards in both of the wagons. We're transporting quite a number of them, in fact."

"We're -eh- 'transporting' boxes and padlocks, or are you going to open the thing up and show me the contents?"

Gamar again fiddled around in his robes, eventually producing a key ring. Then, he displayed great ineptitude at finding the key and even greater maladroitness at attempting to remove the padlock from the box. Eventually, he managed it, with a great show of effort. Halen couldn't help but wonder if this buffoonery was just that: a show. He couldn't help thinking that he'd seen a glint of knife when Gamar had shaken his bracelets back in the bar...

Halen's thoughts were cut short as Gamar swung the lid of box open, revealing the treasure inside for the rogue to see. Again, Halen was not impressed. Sitting inside the box, among much padding, were a dozen or so small, contoured pieces of glass. They seemed to be held in place by their packing. Halen made to pluck one out of the package, but Gamar slapped his hand away.

"Do you know what these are, Rogue?"

"Yes. They're lenses. Unless some is in sore need of a pair of spectacles, however, I don't see exactly why these are worth so much money. Furthermore, there's nothing illegal about lenses. No tariff, as far as I know."

"Look closer."

Halen obeyed and inspected the box of lenses, being careful not to actually touch anything. He stared at them for almost a minute before he realized what was missing. He looked around the box, the lenses, the padding, but it was simply missing. There was no mark of the Glasscrafthall.

"These are illegal lenses, not made by the Glasscrafthall, I see. Who's the buyer?"

"Master Smithcrafthall, in Telgar. Make sense yet?"

"No." Halen hadn't the faintest idea why the smiths would want lenses, unless they'd received a large order for seeing-eye glasses.

"Do you know what's happening in the Southern Continent, Rogue? I don't just mean the establishment of the Hold. I mean with the crafts. It's been going on for most of this turn."

As it so happened, Halen knew exactly what was happening in Southern. Penet had informed the rogue as soon as he had found out. From what Halen understood, expeditions into the heart of the Southern Continent had found the old and shattered ruins of an ancient settlement, buried beneath millennia's accumulation of dirt. Inside that settlement, said Penet, they'd found all kinds of things, ranging from tools and maps to plans and lost secrets of the various crafts. It was also his understanding that these plans had been spread to the appropriate crafts, and that most had begun to integrate the wisdom of the ancients into their current operations.

For simplicity, Halen answered Gamar's question with "Yes."

"Then you know that many of the crafts have undergone small revolutions in their production and in their ways of thinking because of the ancient records they discovered in Southern." Halen nodded, but spoke.

"What does this have to do with us 'transporting' lenses? If the Smithcraft wanted lenses, they could have just ordered them in the normal fashion from the Glasscraft, just as they always have in the past. It doesn't matter if the Glasscraft has new knowledge or not."

Gamar shook his head. "That's where you're wrong. The Master Glasscrafter of Pern, a fellow by the name of Norist, is very, very conservative and hidebound. From what I understand, he's rejected all of this new knowledge and ordered his craft to go trudging along, just as they always have. Some of his crafters, don't agree with him, see? The master craftsman I got these from was risking his job just by keeping them. He didn't dare stamp the boxes with the Glasscrafthall seal, because if he did, then they might have been traced back to him. However, he still made them on commission for the Smithcraft, and needed to get them to them, somehow. So, we're being payed quite a pretty penny for the transportation. A flat fee, we don't need to resell them, so there are no market forces interfering to muddle with my profit projections. The cromcoal is just a front – I expect it to make some money, but not as much as the lenses."

"You never answered my question. Why are these valuable? They just look like normal lenses to me. What was so special about them, that caused Master Norist to forbid their production."

"I'm not sure of the specifics, but from what I understand, they're made from a special kind of glass. I also heard that they're to be used in some of the smiths' optical viewing devices, and they had to be made to precise specifications. The master craftsman who entrusted me with their transportation said that it took him and whole hall months to make the batch. I imagine they were doing it on the side, along with their other business, but it was still an incredibly difficult and precise task. Each one of these lenses is worth its weight in gold."

"You have boxes of these?"

"Yes, a dozen or so." Gamar took the box, relocked it, and replaced underneath the floorboard. Then, he re-arranged the coal pile and dusted off his hands. He swung the wagon's doors shut, and relocked the final lock. Only when he was sure the wagon was secure did he turn to face Halen.

"That was what you'll be protecting. If we're attacked, those boxes are as high a priority as any man's life. They're the whole reason we're doing this in the first place. Just hope we don't encounter the Hold guard. I think that's more or less it. We're setting off tomorrow at noon, but I suggest you get here at around mid-morning to be safe. You'll get your whole fee when we arrive at Telgar safely with the goods, and not a moment sooner. There are two other men who'll be joining us on this expedition, and I'll introduce you to them tomorrow. Be seeing you."

With that stream of information and assorted facts, Gamar turned to go. However, Halen stopped him.

"Gamar!"

The merchant turned to face Halen. "What?"

"I know I already said I had agreed to help you on this 'transportation operation', but I need to know something first. Does this shipment help the dragonweyr in any way? Any way at all?"

Gamar stared at him. "No, I don't think so. Why?"

"When I was younger, I lived around here for a short time, and I had some friends in Esvay Valley."

"Oh." That was all Gamar said. Halen had lied, of course, but it was close enough to the truth. Everyone knew about Esvay Valley. It had happened eight turns ago, when the Oldtimer Weyrleaders had still been strong and unified. Before Benden had gained control of Pern's defense. T'kul, then a Weyrleader, had refused to help Lord Holder Meron of Nabol Hold clear Thread burrows from the forested Esvay Valley. The burrows were too far advanced to clear conventionally by the time Meron managed to get ground crews to the Valley, so the whole forest had to be burned and razed. Meron, not being a particularly compassionate person himself, had booted the affected foresters and other Valley inhabitants, out of his Hold. This had left a large number of families with a real and material gripe with the dragonweyr. The closer to Nabol and Southern Boll (which had had a similar incident) he got, the more Halen found kindred spirits – those who disliked the weyrs, albeit for different reasons. However, rather than describe his entire run-in with Benden Weyr, Halen simply stated Esvay Valley as his reason for disliking the weyrs and no one questioned him further.

"My sympathies. No, I don't think this helps the Weyr in any way. I'll – I'll see you tomorrow."

Gamar walked off, and Halen found his way back inside the Hold proper. Tomorrow indeed.

/ So that's the prologue, third one I've written in the Anne McCaffery section. Please review, and, as always, I'm open to ideas. (I adhere to the "make-it-up-as-you-go" school of writing.)

Until next time, The ACS Dude /


	12. Chapter 1: A Friend In Need

/**Author's Comments:**

Firstly, let's start by reminding everyone that the disclaimer I stated in the previous chapter and in the first chapter of this fanfiction is still applicable. Next, it would seem that I'm going to keep my promise after all: I'll try to get this chapter up before Christmas. (We'll see whether not I succeed, eh?) Anyway, so our story continues.

Well, I'll make the usual requests. If you have anything you feel like commenting on at all after reading, review! Also, it came to my attention that I'd accidentally marked this story complete when in fact it is not, so that particular problem has been fixed. Anyway, so our tale continues a few days later, after Halen's meeting with Gamar, with the smuggling caravan almost at Telgar Hold. Again, I'll give nothing else away, and let you read on.

As always, I am sporadic at best with respect to updates. You can expect another chapter... eventually. Regular readers will note that I will often leave months between chapters. That be said – on to the story!

**Chapter Information:**

Drafting Began: 7:04:20 PM (GMT), December 23, 2007

Drafting Ended: 5:42:54 AM (GMT), December 24, 2007

Uploaded: 5:51:59 AM (GMT), December 24, 2007

The Smuggler of Pern

Chapter 1: A Friend In Need

Benden Weyr

Present Pass, 16.12.7

Early Evening (Benden Time)

Five Days Later

Penet essentially fell face-first onto his bed. He was exhausted beyond words – so exhausted that he didn't even bother heavier weyrhide garments. He just placed his head on his pillow and waited for sleep to come. Penet was so tired that surely he immediately drift off into sleep. But, thanks to the paradox that is the human mind, Penet found that he could not. As he rested his body, unable to move a muscle for weariness, his brain was active. The foe-bronzerider briefly tried the old trick of counting herdbeasts (which almost never worked – Penet didn't understand why anyone ever recommended it at all), before consigning himself to consciousness.

He automatically checked Kritith – his (or Halen's, depending on your perspective) young bronze dragon. After straining his mind, he was able to confirm that Kritith, easily tired as Penet himself, had dozed off. Penet could hardly blame the bronze. They'd had a long, hard day of working and every kind of drilling in the book. It was rather amazing, actually, how much Kritith had grown in these past ten months. Penet had to oil his hide constantly to keep it from splitting right off the dragon's back. There had been several bronzes in that clutching it seemed, and while Kritith might not be the absolute biggest among them, he was definitely no runt. As he hadn't yet reached his full growth, he still required almost constant attention, which was actually quite a workout and consumed much of Penet's time during the day, maybe even more than drilling. Popular opinion around the Holds, or at least in Salt's Clearing, was that to be a dragonrider was to have a dragon at your beck and call. Little did the common folk of Pern realize that it was very much the reverse.

That aside, the standard of living in the Weyr far trumped that of Salt's Clearing. Wines, fruits and vegetables from all over Pern. They had_doors_, and many kinds of furniture that would seem nothing but the greatest luxuries in the Clearing. There, you more or less ate what you killed and cooked yourself, or else traded for similar meats. Fruits and vegetables didn't grow there: only the hardiest plants made their ways up through the cold, cracked ground. There were trees there alright, but the wood wasn't good for making furniture. In fact, it was good for little other than kindling. The reason that Salt's Clearing had never been claimed by any Hold was because there was nothing of value. On the subject of the luxuries of the Weyr, the weyrlings had just recently been moved out of the senior barracks and into their own rooms – which were an even greater display of affluence to Penet than the barracks had been. The larger dragons had finally and definitively grown out of the barracks, so they'd had to move, and Penet's eyes had almost popped out when he had seen his new quarters.

As this stream of thoughts flowed through Penet's mind, his brain grew as weary as his body, and felt himself slipping into sleep. Just as soon as he had started to doze off, he a knock at his door. His _door_. He would have to get used to that. Penet somehow managed to drag himself out of the soft, warm, comfortable bed and answer the door. Standing on the other side was G'ron, the other candidate from Salt's Clearing – now also another bronzerider. He several turns younger than Penet, and had been far more awed and optimistic about this whole experience in the Weyr – about their "luck" at Impressing than Penet had been. Of course, Penet had never Impressed. He hadn't even been at the Hatching. F'lar had told the Weyrlings the fantastical story that Penet and Tras had told D'sen and the Weyrleader. That the Rogue had passed away, but had somehow transferred control of his dragon to Penet. Oddly, no one really remarked on it, and simply treated him like any one of them.

"Hello," said G'ron brightly, distracting Penet from his thoughts.

"Hello, G'ron" returned Penet, though with something of a stifled yawn in his words. He really was quiet tired.

"I was just wondering if you had a spare blanket? It looks my Weyr really hasn't been used in a while and it's not furnished."

"Sure. I've got one somewhere here." Penet rooted through the appropriate drawer and drew out a fur, handing it to G'ron.

"Thanks. After today, I really just wanted to flop down and sleep, but all I had was a pillow – no furs or blankets. Sorry I had to bother you, but I just didn't feel like I had enough energy to go down to the Lower Caverns and get one there."

"Yeah, I know. We had quite a workout today." Penet agreed verbally but was privately skeptical. G'ron was practically bobbing up and down with excitement at everything. "Still, it's a far cry from Salt's Clearing, isn't it?"

"To be sure," agreed G'ron. "It's much nicer than living in a cave or a hut. I still can't believe that this entire place was dug into the side of a mountain! I still can't believe my luck at Impressing Lerith – it just all seems like a dream. I'm kind of scared I'll wake up and still be back in the Clearing."

"Would you like me to pinch you?" asked Penet, smiling slightly. "It wasn't luck that brought Lerith to you G'ron. Anyway, I feel like I'm about to collapse. Good night."

"Good night, P'net."

As Penet closed the door, he winced at the honorific. He didn't think of himself as P'net, even if G'ron did. In a way, he still thought of G'ron as the little, timid yet somehow enthusiastic Gyron. As for he himself, Penet, being called by a different name, it just seemed absurd. Penet knew that he hadn't changed an iota since he came to the dragonweyr. Why should he be called a different name? The honorific contraction was supposed to be a sign of respect, but Penet didn't much care for it. Still, he would sound absurd if he asked to not be called by his contracted name, so he simply endured it. He hadn't stopped gritting his teeth every time he heard the name "P'net". Halen understood. He still called Penet "Penet". He probably would have been blind with rage if anyone had ever contracted his name to H'len. Speaking of whom...

Penet reached out his thoughts to Halen, but found that the latter was asleep. It looked like they wouldn't have opportunity to chat. They'd been "speaking" (if it could be called that) quite frequently though – several times a day. Penet knew that Halen had taken the graveyard shift for driving one of the wagons in his convoy the previous evening and had been awake for the better part of the morning, so it only made sense that he was asleep now. Similarly, Halen had told Penet all about their little smuggling operation, to which Penet had no objection. It was good to hear that Halen was doing okay. _Still_, Penet thought as he flopped down onto his bed for a second time, _it would be good to actually see him again, not just hear his voice in my head._ As sleep finally enveloped Penet's tired mind, the last thing he thought was, _I wonder where Halen is right now?_

* * *

En Route from Crom Hold to Telgar Hold

Present Pass, 16.12.7

Afternoon (Telgar Time)

Simultaneously

Halen was, in fact, just waking from a reasonably pleasant and undisturbed sleep in the fore part of the cargo-hold of one of the two convoy wagons. The back part was filled with Cromcoal, making sleeping there more or less impossible between the dust, the smell, and the physical objects. Fortunately, there was a wooden division between the two halves of the wagon. The past five days had been more or less uneventful, though Gamar was driving the drowbeasts to the utmost (claiming that they had "a schedule to keep"). There were two wagons and only four men, meaning that each had to work a twelve hour shift in order to keep both wagons manned at all times. Most of that time was spent driving, though the animals pulling the carts were allowed to stop and rest for about six hours every evening. How they could stand it, Halen did not know. He would have been utterly exhausted if forced to work as much as eighteen hours a day pulling a wagon, but then, the drowbeasts weren't at a full run. He knew from experience that almost any beast the size of a man was actually a great deal stronger than the man himself. Drowbeasts also, apparently, had incredible endurance.

Halen shook the fur off his body and crawled forwards, out of the cargo section of the wagon and up to the driver's seat. He slipped into the space next to Gamar, who had the drowbeasts pulling the wagon forwards at an orderly trot. The other wagon was only a short ways behind theirs, moving at about the same speed.

Halen opened the conversation with a quick status check. "How are the drowbeasts? I noticed there wasn't much left in their feedbags when I checked it last night."

"You're right – we are running low on feed, but we should have reached Telgar long before we run out."

"How far are we from Telgar? I noticed we passed over the Great Dunto River last night before we stopped for the evening."

"That wasn't the Great Dunto River. That was Telgar River. It feeds into the Great Dunto a little further south. We can't be more than an hour or two away, though. I've been down this path many times, and we're mighty close to the Hold. How was the graveyard shift, by the way? I didn't really get a chance to ask you when we switched off, but I presume everything went just fine."

"Everything went smoothly. I didn't any sign of raiding parties or anything of that nature. The drowbeasts fell right asleep after we stopped, and it quiet for all of the time I watched."

"Good, good. I wasn't really expecting Holdless raiders," remarked Gamar. "That being said, it's not unheard of for a few desperate men to attack a passing convoy."

"You know, Gamar, I had a question about that." Gamar raised his eyebrows but said nothing. "I've been thinking: why did you need an escort? I asked you this the other day when we at Crom, and I realized that you didn't really answer the question. You said you didn't think that the holdless would attack, and you just said it again. I also know that although I've done mainly just the manual-kind of work, like your two pals in the other wagon. I'm getting a much bigger cut of the profits. The fact that we're smuggling -" (Gamar winced) "- doesn't really change the situation all that much.Would you mind explaining why?"

"Come now, Rogue," said Gamar suddenly, in a very quiet voice. "I know you're pretty smart. Surely you've guessed by now."

"I think have," answer Halen. "You're not really all that worried about the holdless. You _are_ worrying that you're smuggling, and that we're going to be inspected by the Telgar Hold tariff officer or whatever they call him. If he catches us, the Hold Guard would do more than just gently chastise us. The real reason you want an escort is to fight off the Guard for long enough for you to make your quick escape."

"Shrewd deduction," remarked Gamar. "And absolutely correct."

Halen shrugged. "It's what I expected from the beginning, as soon as I found out that this was a smuggling operation. In the best of all worlds, it won't come to that. As I'm sure you've deduced by now, I've got no particular love for the Holds and their Lords. As long as I don't have to kill anyone, I'll take care of it."

Gamar shot a sideways glance at Halen, no doubt startled at his willingness to fight off the hold guard. Halen's reasons, were, of course, very different from the reasons that Gamar thought he had. Originally, Halen's objection to the dragonweyr had been entirely philosophical in nature: that they and the rest of society had slighted him in more ways than one. Then, they had actually come to his home and hearth and threatened to take him from it. Things had only gotten worse after that. It had culminated with him not being able to return home anyway. At least he was free to act, as long as he didn't stray to close to the dragonweyr. To the Holds, he was closer to indifferent, but he still held that they too had slighted the holdless. To separate society into two branches, the ones that the holds and let in the and the ones that they had kicked out, was to Halen's mind no society at all.

Gamar was silent for a long while. At length, he said, "I really am sorry about Esvay Valley. I really am."

Halen simply said, "Thank you for your sympathy."

There was another long silence before Gamar said, "You see, Rogue, I grew up on Island Ista." _Wonderful,_ thought Halen. _His life story._ "My dad was a fisherman, and he wanted to grow up and become a fisherman too. This must have been more than fourty turns ago. But anyway, I never liked to fish. I got seasick and hated the smell of fish. Not to mention the taste. So, I put up with it for a while, but when I came of age, I apologized to my dad and left Ista to go find something better to do with my life. Somehow, one way or another, I found myself in Nabol Hold, during the days that Fax still lorded over all the High Reaches. Anyway, I got work there as a trader, most shipping things between the Holds and such. Meron, you see, was the Overseer of Nabol Hold at the time, as Fax was the Lord of all seven. But Fax went and got himself killed during a duel, so Meron became the rightful Lord of Nabol, and kept right on working for him. I'd gotten promoted once or twice already, and I got promoted a few times more. Eventually, I became kind of the hold's "head trader" or some such position, if you want to call it that. Really, I was kind of in charge of all of the other traders. I headed the major convoys, made notes and ledgers and made sure all of our trade was more or less orderly. Then, the pass rolled around and Thread started falling. No one knew quite when it was going to fall, and though F'lar supposedly gave Meron some charts, he didn't have the good grace to share them with us. As soon as the pass started and everyone got word that the Thread was falling, trade really slowed down. That aside, we had quite a few new convoys moving in and out. You know why, Rogue?"

"Why?", asked Halen, though he thought he could guess.

"Tithing trains," Gamar put simply. "Most of our convoys were tithing trains. Now that this new pass had begun, that brought the Oldtimers forward as well, and suddenly every Hold had five new Weyrs to tithe to. Given that most hadn't been tithing to the one, Benden, until F'lar had turned back their assault and forced, it was a new experience for most of us. Meron detested tithing and every aspect of it. He hated being beholden to the Weyrs of Pern for security, but he could see no way around it. So, he grudgingly sent along as little as he could get away with and tried not to think about it. Well, during the eighth turn of the pass, it so happened that Fort Weyr decided that they wanted an extra tithe that turn. Meron wasn't happy about it, but he sent the tithe train out. I headed the train.

Halen could tell that he was getting the important part of the story – he guessed that somehow, Gamar had failed to deliver the tithe and felt that Esvay Valley had happened because Fort Weyr had been angry about it. Gamar licked his lips and continued. "It took a while, but we reached Fort Weyr. I walked right up to the gates and told the guards why I was here. Well, they didn't let me in immediately. Someone came out to meet us – some Wingsecond. T'ron didn't have the good grace to meet us himself, and I wasn't too happy about it, but I held my tongue. That probably would have been the extent of it: I'd have felt a little indignation but emptied the wagons and left, but the Wingsecond aggravated the situation. He started criticizing us: tell us that we were a sevenday late and that Nabol's tithes were too small and too substandard to really count. He might have been right about all those things, but I just wouldn't take it. I know that Meron certainly wouldn't have. I told him that if he didn't want Nabol's tithe, then we'd take it back."

Gamar paused to breathe, or maybe just for the effect. "Do you know what that Wingsecond did?"

Halen shook his head.

"He just laughed at us. So, I ordered the tithing train to turn around. He didn't stop us. He actually ordered them to open the gates to the Weyr and let us out. We headed back to Nabol Hold, and when we returned, I reported to Meron directly. I told him exactly what had happened. And do you know what he did?"

Halen shook his head for a second time.

"Meron patted me on the back. Meron of Nabol Hold, patting a man on the back. I'd never seen him do it before. I'd never even heard of him patting someone else on the back before. Apparently, though, he was pleased with me. He said I'd done the right thing and that the Weyrs of Pern were just a parasite anyway and that we'd been slighted by the dragonweyr for the last time. He didn't send another tithing train. He didn't do anything."

Halen knew what happened next. What had to happen next in order for Gamar to feel compelled to tell him this story.

"The next sevenday, Thread fell again and Esvay Valley happened. I don't think Meron initially thought to blame me, but a few people knew that the last tithing train hadn't been delivered and they blamed me for what happened. Naturally, Meron didn't like the Weyrleader T'ron or the Weyrs in general, so he made a big stink about how it was the fault of Fort Weyr for not adequately protecting his Hold and all that. In private, though, he had to contend with a few people saying that I was responsible for everything that happened at Esvay Valley at that it never would have happened if I'd just delivered the tithe the way I was instructed to. Meron has never had any problems with scapegoats, let me tell you, so he booted me out of his Hold and I became an independent trader for a living. Actually, that little event is what got me into the 'transportation' business. I was angry with Meron for dismissing me after all those turns of service, and I knew Nabol inside and out, so I started "transporting" in some things that Meron would have probably rather taxed or put tariffs on. I shipped some goods out that way too, before Meron got his share of it. I had to stop eventually, though, because he started to catch on. But that's not the point. The point is I feel sorry about Esvay and I'm sorry."

Halen shrugged. "It clearly wasn't your fault, Gamar. If I had been in your place, I would have done the same. Esvay Valley was the fault of Fort Weyr, and no one else. It was they who insulted you and your tithings and turned back the train, and it was they who let the burrows in Esvay Valley grow and spread. It really, honestly wasn't your fault. You had nothing to do with it, and if you want my opinion, you did the right thing." That was true, as far as Halen was concerned. He _had_ done the right thing and Halen would have done the same thing if it was he in Gamar's place.

"Well, thank you. That makes me a feel a bit better, I suppose. But there's something else, too."

_Great_, thought Halen. But simultaneously, the Rogue wondered if there was more to Gamar's stories than met the eye (or the ear). Halen was reminded of the glint of a dagger that he'd thought he'd seen back in the bar in Crom.

However, Gamar, unlike Penet and Kritith, was unable to easily see into Halen's mind and continued speaking unaffected by the Rogue's suspicious thoughts. "Well, here's what I mean. Fax had blood on his hands, did he not?"

Halen could do nothing but nod. Fax had, of course, had blood on his hands. He had captured so many Holds by force of arms, and nearly sacked Ruatha Hold, so much so the ancient bloodline was all but wiped out.

"Fax had blood on his hands. Fax, who shook hands with Meron, who shook hands with me." Halen stared at Gamar. That didn't make sense in either the literal or the figurative. Gamar felt that just because he had worked for Meron during a time when Fax was at war, that he, Gamar, had blood on his hands? Some people might think that helping a killer in any way, no matter how distant or indirect, made one an accessory to the killing. Surely not most people thought this, though. This was ridiculously circuitous.

Gamar seemed to detect the question in Halen's face. "Here, Rogue, let me phrase it like this. Back before the start of the pass, when Fax was still alive, I was still kind of a trader and a shipper in service of Nabol Hold. This was many, many turns ago – as many as thirty, I think. Anyway, one day I was a member of a convoy headed from Nabol proper down to a small, minor Hold called Drake Hold, on the border between Nabol and Ruatha. We were making a routine shipment. It was a load of weapons, food, and other supplies. That may seem a little strange, but Fax and Meron were always having us move those kinds of things around Fax's various holdings. Some of the Hold Guard came with us, too. The strangest thing though was the size of the shipment. It was a massive amount of food and such to be shipping to such a little Hold. When we got there, Fax himself greeted us and thanked us. Well, he didn't so much thank us as he did grunt at us and nod, but I was so intimidated that I didn't stop to think. I didn't realize that in this tiny Hold, there were about a hundred soldiers total, in addition to the Lord of most of the High Reaches."

Halen could also guess how this story would end.

Gamar continued. "The next sevenday, we got word that Fax had invaded Ruatha Hold. I somehow hadn't realized that all of those troops were staging at Drake Hold for an invasion. It simply never occurred to me. And I feel responsible for that as well. I mean, I never meant to kill anyone, direct or indirect. Fax had captured Holds before – but that was a bloodbath. If I'd only known -"

"But you didn't," interposed Halen. "You didn't know, and again, there was little you could have done. What did you think you could have done? Gone and warned Ruatha that Fax was staging for an attack on the Hold?"

Gamar nodded gravely.

Halen continued. "Would you have done that for any of the other holds that Fax captured – the ones where he didn't kill every member of the governing bloodline? Again, you couldn't have known his intent, and you can't be held responsible for the actions the greedy and the unwise, be that man Fax or be that man T'ron. You further can't keep blaming yourself for every problem Pern has ever encountered. By the void man, next you're going to be telling me that you're the reason that the thread falls!"

"Well, now that you mentioned it..." Halen jerked his head towards Gamar so fast that he practically hurt himself, but he saw that his compatriot was grinning. "Thank you, Rogue. I guess I feel better now. That's quite a load off my chest." Halen grinned back, but again, deep down, he felt differently. He remembered the dagger he thought he'd seen up Gamar's sleeve. Most traders were not armed, and there was little reason to conceal armaments even if they were. What if this were just Gamar's way of getting rid of pent-up guilt from something else? What if Gamar did have blood on his hands, and a little more directly than he'd let on? Yes, Fax certainly had had blood on his hands. _Fax, who'd shaken hands with Meron, who'd shaken hands with Gamar, who's shaken hands with me_, thought Halen. He decided that he'd simply continue observing, and see if any fragments of the truth peaked through Gamar's guilty, insecure, almost foolish facade.

Gamar interrupted the conspiracy theories forming in the Rogue's mind with a shout. Halen cleared his mind and looked around abruptly.

"We near our destination," remarked Gamar. And so they did, observed Halen, for there in plain sight if somewhat in the distance, was Telgar Hold.

"Hold Ho!" Halen called, and Gamar, heartened, flourished the reigns of the drowbeasts, spurring them to greater speeds.

* * *

It was getting colder and colder as time marched onwards into the winter months. That was just the way things were – one end of the year was cold, and another was warm, he knew. Today, however, there was a pleasant lull in the cold weather. The powerful, chilling winds and gusts had changed to a pleasant breeze, and the sun was also shining pleasantly. The grass was wonderfully springy and soft, as it always was. A little slice of paradise on Pern. He contentedly let his blonde hair – so blonde it was almost white – intermingle with the green grass, and let his eyelids fall shut. It was peaceful here. He hadn't a care in the world. He fell asleep.

Maybe a second later, maybe an hour, he bolted upright. The prescience had returned, strong as ever. A woman's – no, a girl's – piercing shriek ripped through his consciousness as vividly as knife would through his own beating, mortal heart. He could not remember who he was, where he was, or why he was there: all that matter was that he had to help that girl. The prescience provided him with a moment of pure clarity. Though he had never been there before, a place came into his mind as clearly as though he had always been there – as familiar and well-known to him as... well, he didn't as what. He could not remember anything about himself. But he knew the name of the place to which he had to go. _Telgar_. The name was there – as if it had always been there.

Black engulfed him. Dark, cold, black... darker and blacker than night, colder than ice... this was _between_, which had experienced through the prescient state some times in the past. The prescience lent an atmosphere of unreality to everything that he did, but somehow, this experience, or this total lack of experience, frightened him even through the desolate reaches of partial omniscience. There was a horrible lurch around his gut as he realized that there was nothing beneath him, nothing to keep him from falling. Perhaps he was falling, lost forever in the night...

And then, he saw the light and felt the sun on his face, though both sensations seemed dull and distant. As abruptly and quickly as it came, the prescient state slipped away, but he knew that this was not right. This was not where the girl had been. He had never seen where the girl was, but somehow he knew that this was not right. Again, maddening doubt crept into his mind. He was not the right person to save the girl, he knew. But, he had to try. He could not simply let her scream and scream and scream... But why here? This was not where the girl was.

As the last vestiges of all-knowing clarity slipped from him, he became aware of why. He was not the right person. He could not do what he needed to do alone. He would need to find help. And help he could find here. Here at Telgar Hold.

* * *

"Shipment of Cromcoal, fresh from Bitra," explained Gamar to the inspector who had come out to meet them as they tried to enter Telgar Hold proper. If it was Halen's job to assess all threats to the convoy, he would definitely judge this man to not be a threat. He wasn't precisely old, but seemed later on in turns, maybe in his fifties, and had a rounded belly that indicated he didn't often feel the pinch of hunger. He had no beard, but his mustache was so long it seemed to serve the same purpose. His eyes, covered by spectacles, were similarly warm and definitely non-threatening. He appeared to have no weapons on his person and, Halen surmised, was most certainly not a threat to the convoy. At least, not physically, but it this man discovered the secrets beneath the floorboards of these wagons, Halen might need to leap to action quickly. The rogue-turned-escort kept one hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Just in case.

"I'd say there's a bit more than a dragonweight here," remarked the tax-man.

"A weight and a quarter I purchased in Crom, and a weight and a quarter I'm selling here," responded Gamar. He certainly seemed to know his way around these sorts of procedures.

"A weight and a quarter, eh? Well, it's not the first shipment, and it won't be the last. We're going to have a cold winter these late and early months. Been a great demand for fuelrock there has, just to keep everyone warm." The potbellied imports agent jotted down some figures onto the parchment he was carrying. There'd been advancements in parchment recently, Halen knew, probably thanks in no small part to the discoveries at southern. To really last the turns, general consensus was that one should use preserved animal hide, but parchment was gaining prevalence nonetheless. It was cheaper, for one thing.

The rather weighty-looking inspector gave each wagon a cursory glance, and then named some figure to Gamar. Gamar, who apparently had already anticipated this very figure, simply pulled out a pouch of marks and gave it to the man. The tax-man quickly counted the money, nodded in agreement, and then passed the convoy through. He would probably go home to his wife, thought Halen, tell her about his day, and then enjoy one of the meals that gave him his physique. He would be none the wiser about the contents of the caravan he'd just passed through. If the four men of the convoy kept their silence, then that would never have occasion to change. Halen loosened his grip on his sword.

After bringing the wagons to a stop within the walls of Telgar Hold, Gamar turned to Halen and the other caravan hands. "Well, lads, I don't need your help so much anymore. I'm going to sell our Cromcoal wholesale to some of the local merchants and I'll take care of delivery of our - eh - 'specialty goods'. The caravan's probably going to wait here for two, maybe three days, while I unload everything and while the drowbeasts rest, and then we'll be off south." The other two men nodded and walked off, it seemed towards the nearest drinking establishment. Gamar said to Halen, "You can come back in a day or two to pick up your cut, once I've delivered everything. If you'd like, you stay with the convoy. I'm not sure how much I'll be paying you – it'll depend on whether I can pick up any other 'specialty goods' here, but we'll probably be heading south-southeast."

"I'll think about it," said Halen. He then turned around and walked off, intent on exploring the Hold.

First order of business was to find somewhere to spend the night – an inn or something or that nature. Halen automatically checked his mental link with Penet and Kritith, but found both to be asleep. Well, he'd tell them about his safe arrival tomorrow, he supposed. If he stayed with the convoy and headed much further east, the time difference would start to shrink and his and Penet's waking hours would begin to coincide more naturally. That had advantages and disadvantages, of course. Though it was always good to hear his friend's voice, it was also a bit annoying to have constant, unbidden voices and emotions in the back of one's head. Maybe he could -

Halen stopped cold in his tracks. There, not a dragonlength away from him, was the same boy that he had seen ten months ago on that fateful day in Salt's Clearing. It could be no other. The hair – so blond that it was almost white – that same pale complexion, and most over, that same loose, baggy clothing that put him out of place anywhere in the north. Telgar was as far north as Benden Hold, and the boy seemed as out of place here as he had in Salt's Clearing. Yet somehow, it was this extraordinary child that bonded Penet to Kritith through Halen. He must be immensely powerful, Halen knew that. However, he had a strange, dreamy, lost look about him.

"Are you lost, young man?" Halen had asked him the same question in Salt's Clearing.

"No. I meant to be here. To find you." The boy had said the exact same thing as he had said the first time.

"Well, if you mean to solve my problems again, I think you did an admirable job the first time."

"No. This time, I'm here to solve someone else's problem. There's a girl in Telgar Weyr who needs my help."

Halen raised an eyebrow. "If you wanted to reach Telgar Weyr, you're close but still a stone's throw away. This is Telgar Hold."

"I know. I said I came here to find you. I came here to find you because I can't do this on my own. I'm not the right person. I need your help."

Halen considered. He didn't know what "I'm not the right person meant", but he understood the rest of it. This boy had a misty way about him, but he had certainly helped Halen out of the toughest jam of his life. He seemed quite the altruist. If there was a girl in need of help – well, Halen had two days and little else to do.

"Okay. What's your name, boy? Or can you not remember?" Halen remembered that the last time they had met and had a conversation, the young boy had seemed to suffer from amnesia.

"No..." after a brief period of consideration, the boy responded, "I believe I remember my name, but little else. It comes back slowly, you see. But I don't see why I should tell you my name if you won't tell me yours."

Halen considered that. "Point taken. You can call me 'Rogue', and I'll call you 'Boy', and we'll both be none the wiser. Now, in what way can I help you, or rather, this girl that you want to help?"

"I'll show you once we get to Telgar Weyr."

"Hm... that shouldn't be too much of a problem. Telgar isn't literally a stone's throw from here, but it's quite close. It's getting a little late in the day to start traveling, but if we start out tomorrow, we could easily get there by the afternoon. Actually, if I can find a runnerbeast or two today, we might be be able to get there by not too long after nightfall." Halen considered the distance and the speeds. No, it shouldn't be a problem at all.

"That shouldn't be necessary."

"Why?", asked Halen, curious.

"I'll show you." The boy grabbed Halen's arm in his hand. Then, before Halen could realize what was happening, absolute dark and cold enveloped the Rogue of Pern.

/ So that's chapter number one, and the plot has started to thicken. It looks like I've also managed to finish this chapter within the time limit. For the next few chapters, at least, I do have a good idea of what I'm doing. Still, that shouldn't stop you from reviewing and telling me your thoughts on the story so far. I'm open to suggestions, and if you've got a good one, I'll use it. Merry Christmas and a Happy Holidays to all!

Until next time, The ACS Dude /


End file.
